Addicted to You
by TouchedBytheAngel
Summary: He works at a drugstore. He studies at night. He should be the most boring thing in the world. But Sherlock realizes, with swift and agonizing clarity, that little John Watson has him all shook up and cracked into pieces...Greaser!lock
1. Chapter 1: Pretty Blue Eyes

**Addicted to You**

My first Greaser!lock fic. :D

Disclaimer: _Wise writers say,_

_Only newbs rush in,_

_So I can't help,_

_Disclaiming for you._

_Shall I stay?_

_Would it be a sin,_

_If I wrote and simply disclaimed you._

_Like a singer flows so surely with the beat,_

_Oh fanfic, so it goes,_

_Some words are meant to be (written)._

_XD_

**_Chapter One: Pretty Blue Eyes_**

They roam the country, finding stores, houses, buildings welcome to them. Who cares if their doors are closed? They are untouchable. Safe. Bold.

John remembers quite well, but he's not always sure Sherlock does. He knows the date, could probably give the hour, when his life had exploded. Shattered into fragments and Sherlock had caught every one.

He works in the drugstore, his job by day, his studies by night. He supplies medication to rheumatic old women, and fat old men justifiably afraid of cardiac arrest. The job itself is boring except for the people he gets to "treat."

It's a Tuesday. Everyone who works in the store has gone to lunch, including the customers, except John. _Somebody _had to take the lunch shift, and he packages his food anyway. Better organization that way, he figures. He's writing in his journal, thinking about the people who come in. He wants to be a doctor some day; actually sit in his own office and carefully assess them before issuing them prescribed medication that he has little knowledge of. He can't do that right now, but at least, at the moment, he can _write _about them. The bell above the door Dings! But John doesn't look up. It's probably Mrs. Hudson come to get her weekly herbal soother.

He's startled, then, when a pair of gloved hands come to rest on the clean countertop. Long and pale from what he can see of the skin of the exposed knuckles. John slowly raises his eyes until he's almost eye-to-eye with possibly the most beautiful boy he's ever seen without being a woman. _Or queer, but I'm not supposed to think about that, _he reminds himself somewhat bitterly, staring into silvery cerulean eyes.

Those eyes remain fixed on him, almost sizing him up before he finally speaks. It's deeper than John had expected, a rich baritone that makes him shiver slightly. The boy's lips curve into what might be either a smirk or a smile. Possibly both.

"Does this place carry any penicillin?" He inquires. His voice must still be adjusting slightly, John notes.

He forces himself out of his staring fest and scrambles for a sheet of paper. He looks up at the boy again. "Um, name and date of birth?"

"It's for my brother," the boy explains, but he tells him anyway.

John nods and writes it down.

The boy is still staring.

John hastily grabs a small bottle in the required amount and hands it to him. The boy flashes a smile. "Thanks."

John can only nod mutely, he feels like an idiot but he's certain that if he tries to talk he's going to stutter, which will make him blush, which will make him look like even more of an idiot than he already is. The boy raises his dark eyebrows, matching his curly black hair. "What, they hire mutes? Guess the world really _is _moving on."

John's face flushes before he can stop himself. "I'm not mute! I just…didn't know what to say," he huffs, irritated at himself.

The boy grins. "Been awhile since I've struck someone speechless."

John rolls his eyes. "You're very humble."

"Yeah, and you've got a brother who drinks and a ma you don't talk to because you're queer." The boy's face is downright smug, and suddenly John isn't just embarrassed, he's _furious. _Anger flares up in him and he stands up.

"Firstly, it's my _sister," _he bites out. "Secondly, it's not my ma's fault, it's my dad who doesn't approve of…who I am. And thirdly, how the hell did you know that?"

His outburst startles even himself, and the boy takes a half-step back and whistles. "Huh."

"Huh?" John's entire adult life is eclipsed in a single idiotic syllable. He stands straight, staring in confusion at what seems to be permanently labelled as, 'The boy.' "Who are you?" He demands.

The boy steps forward again, put at ease. "Sherlock." He held out his hand. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, y'know..?"

"John. And I'm not queer," John repeats stubbornly slowly putting his hand out to shake.

Sherlock smiles as he takes his hand, then suddenly pulls John forward and mashes their mouths together. John's eyes snap shut instinctively, and he's halfway into kissing him back before he actually remembers _who _it is he's kissing. And this boy is a _brilliant _kisser.

He jerks away maybe six seconds later, and at least five seconds too late, staring back, trying to control his shaky breathing.

Sherlock isn't even smirking; he looks almost as dazed as John himself. "Right. You're not queer."

John's hands clench into fists at his sides. "I can see you are," he says witheringly. He should be infuriated with the boy, and God, he's _trying _to be. Instead, he's confused and curious. "What was that for?"

Sherlock smiles at him. Up front, unashamed…un-sarcastic, looking into those pretty blue eyes. It's just a smile. And yet he finds his eyes getting drawn to those lips again. "I wanted to see what would happen."

John just stares blankly at him. "And?"

"And you've never kissed a boy before, but you're pretty good," Sherlock grins.

John wants to sit down and think. Instead, he sighs. "D'you need anything else?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Thanks."

"For the kiss or the medicine?" John inquires drily.

Sherlock winks as the bell above the door signals his departure. "Both."

John leaves the store a bit early that evening, rubbing a hand over his face as he walks down the sidewalk. It's a mile's walk home, and he's already tired. But it's not like he has a choice. He tries to keep himself occupied, but all-in-all, the walks are achingly boring.

He hears muffled calls and the roar of engines as some of the teenage and twenty-something boys race around the town. John's only ever been on a motorcycle once, and he's never tried them again. It's not that he disliked then-hell, he had a certain love of the exhilarating _speed _of the machine. But with his current salary, he'd be able to afford one of those by the time he was sixty. Fifty if he got a promotion, he thinks wryly.

The roar of a motor behind him makes him jump slightly, although it's nothing he's not used to. But this one was driving _really _fast and getting alarmingly close. He kept walking, just hoping the driver wasn't drunk. Or crazy. Or murderous.

It's slowing down behind him and John is getting more and more confused. Finally he can't take it anymore and turns around, trying to pick out the form of the motorcycle's driver in the deepening twilight. Pale flecks of skin glowing out of charcoal gloves and a smirk that John remembers quite well. He flushes.

"Sherlock..?"

Sherlock smiles and pulls up closer. "Stellar memory."

"W-Why are you following me?" John demands, beginning to wonder if he's not just looking for a convenient place to kill him.

Sherlock however just shrugged. "I saw you walking. And I know it's a ways home for you."

"How?" John inquires. "Do you do this often?"

Sherlock smirks. "You wish. Your shoes are caked with red clay that's outside of town. The locals clean it all up here."

John is impressed despite himself. "Fine. D'you want something?"

"Actually, I was more wondering what _I _could do for _you,_" Sherlock smiles suddenly.

"You mean…you want to give me a ride home?" John raises his eyebrows. He's half hoping that's at least what he means.

Sherlock nods.

"Why?"

"Does there have to be a reason?" The boy on the motorbike inquires.

"Yeah," John decides, nodding.

Sherlock pauses for a moment. "I guess I just like you."

John looks blank. "You just _like _me?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs. "You know, you don't have to repeat everything I say. Or question it for that matter."

John folds his arms. "Fine, then. No."

"No?" The boy's eyebrows are raised.

John tries to suppress a grin. "Now who's repeating who?"

Sherlock pauses. "Why?"

"You could be a serial rapist." It's a flimsy worry and John knows it, but he's taking a strange enjoyment in giving Sherlock a hard time.

"That's real kind of you," Sherlock grunts. "I do, however, assure you that I'm not."

"You could be a kookie then." John's enjoyment in this is getting to be downright sinful.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. The right one is slightly thicker at the top than the other. "Do I _look _like a kookie to you?"

John smirks, but he takes a step forward to look at the bike. It's polished, clean, and the engine purrs like a kitten. He smiles slightly then looks up. Sherlock is staring down at him, watching John as he skeptically views his bike. At John's small smile, he grins back.

"So, you like her?" He asks at an attempt at nonchalance.

John chuckles and carefully settles his little rump on the seat behind Sherlock. "I'll tell you when I get home," he promises, low as the engine rumbling.

Sherlock smirks and he revs the engine. "It's a deal."

John wraps his arms trustingly around the older boy's waist and looks around them curiously.

"Faster!" He urges, and he feels Sherlock's sides ripple with laughter. The streets pass by in a blur of colour and John pulls in lungfuls of evening air.

Eventually the world starts to catch up with them, and John realizes that they're slowing down. He bites back a huff of disappointment. Sherlock pulls up to the street in which John has told him to go, and John's hands slide off his sides as he steps onto the street. Sherlock smiles and turns off his engine.

"So." He says.

John nods. "Thank you."

"Did you enjoy it?" Sherlock seems genuinely concerned about this.

John hides a smile. "It was alright."

"_Alright?_" Sherlock scoffs. "The Pirate's won more drags than any other bike I can think of. And you're saying it was _alright?_"

John is laughing. "Okay, maybe a bit better than Alright."

"It'd better have been," Sherlock grunts, and then he's grinning at John and his face is flushed.

"I don't have your last name," John observes.

"Holmes. You?"

"Watson."

"Watson." Sherlock repeats the name, nodding. "Fits."

"How come?" John inquires with a slight smile.

"Short guy who works at a drugstore and plans to be a doctor…I dunno." He shrugs. "Just does."

"How do you do that?" John wonders curiously. "Do that thing where it's like you know everything I've ever done just by looking at me."

Sherlock's face goes neutral. "Just something I practice," he says quietly.

"I get the feeling most people don't share my sentiments on it," John says, catching the slight dip of the head and the lowered tone.

"What're your sentiments, then?" Sherlock drawls.

"It's amazing," John says honestly, and Sherlock looks up.

"Amazing, huh?"

John grins. "A real geezer."

Sherlock smiles at him, and then just like that John is pressed up against the wall next to his apartment and the older boy's mouth is all over his.

John can't help it, he laughs against his mouth. "Stop it, stop it!"

Sherlock grins and steps back, panting slightly. "What?"

"Is this…how you always…show appreciation?" John is also huffing.

The taller boy is bending his head and nosing along John's jawline. "No…"

"I'm not the first, then."

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock is planting tiny kisses down his throat. He smirks when John shivers.

"You're so…good at this." John's hands flop half-heartedly.

"Mm…maybe I just have extra motivation."

John smiles. "Besides, I haven't even kissed you."

Sherlock looks up. "Wanna fix that?"

"I don't even know you," John murmurs, Sherlock's warm body pressed all against his. "We met this _afternoon._"

"I don't plan on living so see my hair going grey," Sherlock says frankly. "An afternoon is plenty of time."

John's hands are sneaking up to his collar, pulling Sherlock a little closer. "Live fast, die young, leave a handsome corpse behind?"

Sherlock breathes a laugh into his neck. "That's the general idea."

John nuzzles his cheek shyly. "And if I ask you to stay?"

"Hmm…is that a proposition, Watson?" Sherlock inquires.

John flushes. "I don't…I've never…"

"Relax." Sherlock looks pleased by this. "I'll teach you."

"I-I…okay." John smiles faintly. "But not tonight!" He adds quickly before Sherlock can dive into his neck again. "I've got studying to do."

"Is this going to come between us?" Sherlock grumbles, but he's smiling.

"Only if you let it," John grins, shoving him off him. "Now get."

Sherlock backs off and then throws himself back, pushing John against the wall and giving his mouth a kiss so hard his lips might be branded. John is panting and flushed when Sherlock lets him go with a smirk.

"You can come here after work," John decides. "Or…I could go someplace with you."

Sherlock nods, considering. "I'll pick you up," he decides. "We can go to my place…the only folks close by there are either half stoned 24/7 or don't give two shakes."

"It's a deal," John nods, and hurries inside before those silver eyes catch him again.

**Notes: Sorry if all the dialogue got boring! Hope you all like it so far. :D**


	2. Chapter 2: Shakalaka Baby

Chapter Two:

Shakalaka Baby

There's a tingling feeling in the pit of his belly and last night another boy's lips were all over his. Like he was kissable. John flushes lightly at the memory.

Like there was nothing _queer _about him at all.

John's shift ends, but the work never does. It's funny how needy some people are for something so small. The small bottles of liquid, or capsules of pills, are what gives them hope. The promise of life, of being better, of _getting _better. It makes him smile though he's not quite sure why. To be able to help them like this. Guide them to the aisle where they need to go…give them what they need.

The only thing terrible is when he _can't. _When there is no medicine to cure cancer, only to ease their passing. Nothing to help those dying of fungal diseases or hopelessly wasting away from drink, drugs, depression.

Or being queer.

He remembers the day it happened then, too. When he had realized just how _queer _he was. The word made him wrinkle his nose. He was waiting at his counter when a nervous older woman came in and asked if, "there was any medicine to cure being queer." Her mouth had lingered over the last word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. John's face was blank for a moment.

"Q-queer?" He stuttered slightly.

She nodded. "M'eldest…he's a good boy…but…he's suff'ring from it. I need to help him." Her eyes are wide and frightened, and John paused. _Suffering from it. _Like it's some terrible illness and not just a choice a free individual makes of their own volition. His dad had kicked him out for less. For having a crush on a boy he barely even spoke to. It's not like he had kissed him, or touched him like the other boys at his school had done to their girlfriends. They spoke, at recess, in the hallways, whispers in class. Nothing more. And yet his own family acted like it made him a criminal. A strange, heathen case with an illness that could somehow be cured by the right amount of medicine.

John had jerked himself back to the present when the woman cleared her throat.

"Um, I'm sorry, Ma'am…I'm not sure we carry that sort of thing," he said apologetically.

"Oh." Her disappointment was palpable. "Too bad."

_Too bad. _

"Why?" John asked.

"Hm?" She looked up.

"_Why _is that too bad?" John was fighting anger.

The woman looked at him like he was crazy. "Because it's _sin, _young man. Didn't they teach you that at bible school? Being…like _that. _It's a terrible, damnable thing. It's un-right and unnatural."

John flinched like he's been slapped, and the woman was still staring at him.

"Are you alright..?" she ventured.

John's hands are tight on the counter but he looks up and _smiles. _"Oh, yes. I'm sorry, ma'am. I could recommend you to a doctor I know who tries to help with _that sort of thing._" His teeth were practically on edge at the last phrase.

She brightened instantly. "Oh, yes! That would be wonderful!"

John gave her the name and address of the same doctor who had tried to cure him years ago.

Tried to fix his _queerness. _

But that's all in the past now, and John sighs as he pulls himself out of his reverie. There's a tingling feeling in the pit of his belly and last night another boy's lips were all over his. Like he was kissable. John flushes lightly at the memory.

Like there was nothing _queer _about him at all.

He's distracted as he works, his thoughts half focused on helping others and half on helping himself. Maybe Sherlock was just being impetuous, thoughtless. Countless other people were. Maybe he'd leave John alone and he could forget about it. Worry clouds the boy's thoughts for a moment at that, and he realizes with sudden clarity that he does not _want _Sherlock to leave. He wants him to come back, to think about him. It's girly and ridiculous and he hates himself for it. But John is just so unused to feeling like this…to having someone tell him he was liked for being who he was, that they didn't mind and even were the same themselves. It's novel and wonderful and he didn't even feel ashamed.

When John's shift ends, the pit in his stomach is not from fear, it is _excitement. _

John is wearing his favourite pair of khaki pants, his clean blue button up that Harry said matched his eyes so well, and a little grey jumper because it's a bit cool even for a spring day. He puts his keys into his pocket and waves to the older woman who's taking his place at the counter, helping people. She doesn't even see it but John doesn't care. He goes out into the cool evening air and waits.

Sherlock does not come.

He's probably just late, John assures himself. Maybe the light turned red. Maybe there was a wreck. And it's only been five minutes.

Ten minutes pass. No Sherlock, no roar of a motor, though John's ears are so strained from listening they might be bleeding. He's getting cold and thirsty and disappointment is welling up in him as stupidly as the happiness that had been there before.

After half an hour, John begins to walk home. His head is bowed slightly, his keys jingling halfheartedly in his pockets. He's angry, and miserable, and hungry. He could have been studying, could have had dinner.

He's angry at Sherlock and he knows quite well how stupid that is.

The revving of an engine behind him is both nostalgic and infuriating. John's half tempted to yell some obscenity at whatever person's passing by. _Piss off! Go home. _He rarely talks like that-ever. Shows just how much some stupid kid and a motorcycle has worked him up.

So he turns around to say it, because hell, he's mad, and getting it out this way makes his blood thrill with an angry boil.

"John?" The smug bastard's sitting there _smiling _at him.

John freezes before the angry words can slip out. _He showed. _

"What the _hell _do you think you're doing?" He exploded. "Why bother showing up at all?!"

Sherlock blinks. "I had a reason!"

"A bloody awful reason!" John huffs. "What, did you just want me to wait long enough to get hungry and angry?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "John, calm _down."_

"I am calm! I'm extremely calm!" It's the worst lie he's ever told but it makes John feel better.

The dark-haired boy rolls his eyes and fishes for a bag behind him. "Actually, I'm late because I got something for you."

"Wh-" John stops again. Sherlock is holding out a bag and John takes it slowly, tanned fingers hesitant.

Inside the bag is a book. When he flips it open, the name _John _is scrawled on the first page, and it's full of pictures. Herbs, plants, types of medicines. _The Brown Book of Medicine. _

He looks up, shocked. "You got something for me?"

"Well it's sitting right there, and _I _certainly don't want it." Sherlock's eyes are twinkling.

"Why'd you get it?" John inquires, clutching it to his chest. His cheeks are flushed.

Sherlock shrugs. "I drove by a bookstore on the way to pick you up and saw it in the window. Made me think of you. D'you like it?" He asks, with unexpected shyness.

John's grin is spreading over his face. "It's bad."

Sherlock laughs. "Thanks."

John smiles, the use of the vocabulary always amusing him. _Bad is good, remember? _Harry had told him.

_Does that mean Queer is Special? _

Sherlock parks his bike and John climbs up. He puts the book carefully in its bag into the basket on the back where it fits snugly. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, the growing darkness providing a comforting aura.

"Sorry…for kind of exploding back there…" He apologizes awkwardly.

Sherlock turns his head and smiles at him. "I know a way you can make it up to me."

John flushes and gently turns his head around. "Not here," he hushes. "We might be seen."

"We _might _be seen anywhere, John," Sherlock grumbles. "The likelihood of actually _being _so is comparatively small."

"Still," John says, and that settles it. The bike revs up again and they're driving away, the lights flying past in a colourful palette. John sighs.

"Alright?" Sherlock asks over the rush of wind.

"Peachy," John calls back, and Sherlock nods. His dark hair is whipping in the wind, soft, wild curls that John just wants to run his fingers through. He spends at least six minutes imagining doing so before he takes a gander at his surroundings.

It's a different part outside of town, one that John's been to before. He'll trust Sherlock that he knows his way around, but he'd never come here ordinarily. His dad would approve.

The bike finally slows down a few feet outside of a small diner. It's by no means a stellar establishment but John likes it. It's clean and cool inside, the air conditioners roaring in the background with a greedy hum as they suck up electricity and the owner's money. Sherlock leads him inside as coolly as if he's the prettiest girl in the county and sits him down at a bright red booth.

The girl that takes their order seems mildly surprised by the presence of two boys, but she quickly takes them both in and then pulls out her little notebook.

"May I take your orders?"

John orders a strawberry ice-cream but Sherlock orders only water. He's somewhat curious about this and asks about it.

"Why water?"

"Why not?"

John considers this. "I guess most people come to these places expecting to get…food. Or something special."

Sherlock smiles. "Are you stereotyping me, Mr. Watson?"

John grins back, arms resting on the table. "No. It just makes me feel a bit bad."

"Don't." Sherlock smiles at him again. It's a genuine smile and it warms John all over.

"So, what happens if we ever get caught at this?" John asks a moment later.

"What do you mean?"

John swallows. "I just mean…you…me."

"What, because you're gay?"

The question is so casual John almost forgets what he's asking.

"…Yeah. Because we're queer."

Sherlock shrugs. "Nobody's going to judge us here."

"How do you know?" John inquires with interest.

They are forced to pause for a moment as their drinks arrive, and when Sherlock speaks again John's mouth is full of whipped cream and strawberry pinkness.

Sherlock smiles and reaches up his hand. He tilts John's face to the man at the counter.

"He's in an incestuous relationship with his sister. His sister is also lesbian."

"How do you know that?" John breathes, trying not to get caught up in Sherlock's hand, which is surprisingly gentle, on his cheek.

Sherlock smiles. "I merely observe."

"Then why can't I see it?" John complains, trying to find any telltale signs of what Sherlock is saying.

"Because as ever, people _see _but they do not _observe._ You _see _everything, John, but you do not _notice _it," the dark-haired boy responded in some frustration.

John just rolls his eyes and finishes his ice cream. Sherlock watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows the last slightly soupy bite with something akin to hunger. It both frightens and intrigues John, who's never had attention like this ever. It's always been him taking the girl out places, walking her home, buying her food.

John is thinking that he might like it.

When they're outside and John is climbing back onto the motorcycle, Sherlock pulls his head towards his and kisses him full on the mouth, outside the diner. John fights not to be swept away in just sensation; _warm soft full want, _but it's hard enough as it is and unfair that Sherlock is such an amazing kisser. He's concealed mostly behind Sherlock's jacket, and he'd be happy, completely happy, to just wrap his arms around his waist and sink into it.

Sherlock seems to sense that.

"Come home with me," he urges, holding John's hands, his long, white fingers interlaced with the other boy's tanned ones. "You said you'd let me teach you-I could do so good by you."

John shakes his head with an enormous effort. "Please…not tonight. It's not that I don't want to-" he gets out, feeling clammy and awkward. "I just…I don't want to rush it. I want it to be special." He looks down at their joined hands shyly. "Call me a sissy, but I've never…done anything like this before…I want it to last."

Sherlock smiles and tilts his chin up and kisses him soft.

"Special, huh?"

John nods, murmuring into his mouth. "Real special."


	3. Chapter 3: All Shook Up

Chapter Three:

All Shook Up

Sherlock realizes, with swift and agonizing clarity, that little John Watson has him all shook up and cracked into pieces.

Sherlock hates stereotypes.

As a Holmes, this probably shouldn't surprise anyone, but it remained a fact. So it probably _shouldn't _surprise him that he's completely fascinated by John. The little paradox that makes him want to scream. He's so soft and so hard, he _wants _Sherlock but he's _afraid _of what that want could mean. When Sherlock first laid his sights on those pretty blue eyes, looking up so wide and innocent, he knew what he wanted. People call him dirty minded, (which was somewhat true,) but he also wanted John for more than just casual sex. A date that would be dumped at dawn with nothing more than a number that actually didn't connect to any phone lines. He wanted to lay John out, see him naked in his bed, yes, those bright eyes disheveled in lust, who wouldn't? But he wanted most of all to figure him out. Find the source of that tiny flame in the boy's eyes. Sherlock knew how old he was, where he'd been born, how cold it was. He knew what John's favourite food was and several useful techniques in what made him giggle, what made him smile.

His smiles _kill _Sherlock.

What a way to go, though.

He's never been one people would think of as the gay, the drag-racer, the prodigal son. But, then again, with his hatred of stereotypes, at least his _parents _might have seen it coming. His parents were ordinary. Boring, even, though not like John's were, from his description. John's parents were boring not because of the way they lived but the way they _thought. _They thought that because John was who he was, that made him evil. Made him strange, uncouth; as if the rust of people's opinions could somehow corrode his value. Sherlock hates it, which breaks another stereotype.

He cares for someone other than himself.

He takes John out again. And again, and then again. Always after his shift at the store, or on Sunday afternoons when most people are either out driving in their fancy cars or at home reading their prayer books. He takes John on his motorcycle, lets him try on his old helmet he had when he was sixteen, because it makes John laugh and John's laughter sparks something in him that he likes. He takes John around, and though John doesn't know it, he's giving him something in return because Sherlock is showing the golden-haired boy off as much as John is enjoying Sherlock showing him everything else. He makes sure to pass by the roads where his usual beatniks and biker pals hang around, shifting forward just slightly at the precise moment to let John have a moment of individual glory. For everyone to see his arms tightly wrapped around Sherlock's waist, and his soft blonde hair that reminds Sherlock of the warm smell of hay getting all mussed up.

It's stupid, and risky, and he knows it.

Nah, he doesn't just _know _it, he _revels _in it.

So he drives past where all the paper-shakers live; all the _normal _people who would cringe to see such wickedness and a waste of good education passing by.

His teachers expected better. His parents expected better. Even his older brother, who was the very visage of a calm, collected, college graduate working on his bachelor's. They _know _he can do better; many times on his report cards a teacher would have scrawled, _Sherlock has an excellent mind and is enthusiastic when he wants to learn. He needs to learn to channel that enthusiasm into a balance. _Or something of that nature. It all meant the same, "Oh, he could be so much better." "Oh, he's clever, what a waste of gifts!" Sherlock doesn't give to shakes; he stopped caring what people thought a long time ago.

The biggest problem with John Watson was that he was getting him to care about stuff like that again.

John was smart. He was easy, kind, liked to help people. If he wasn't queer, he'd probably already be dating one of those sorority girls with their clean, scented hair and lip-sticked smiles. He'd be dating one, probably stick with her, definitely marry her in just a little while. He could study at the university for the degree in medicine he wanted, and be a doctor, with a family.

He gave all that up for three little words.

_It's my life. _

John had left home because he wanted to see what he could do without any of that. None of the pressure, the competition that comes naturally with having an older sibling, as Sherlock well knew. Here, nobody but he knew who John was, and nobody but he cared.

John likes Elvis, but not the Beatles. He'll listen to songs like _Don't _and _Bend Me, Shape Me, _without qualms. But he also loved the soft songs, the sweet ones you're supposed to listen to while making out with your girl in the back of your wing-back impala. _Love Me Tender, _of course, and _Can't Help Falling in Love, _and sometimes, when he's in a tolerant mood, _Hey Jude. _

Sherlock keeps it all catalogued and stored away tight.

He watches John's face as he comes out of the drugstore; his blue eyes rove around until they find him, sitting on his bike, and the shorter boy's face breaks into a smile.

John is so trusting, has such faith in Sherlock. It makes his insides feel like a light bulb-lit up and electric.

Sherlock hops off the Pirate as John approaches, taking in his look of mild confusion.

"What gives?" He inquires curiously. Another thing Sherlock likes about John; he's always _wondering. _

Sherlock smiles back. "I was thinking you might want to drive today."

John's eyes widen; he's obviously half-pleased, half-awed.

"Me?"

Sherlock nods and tosses him the keys with a smile. "She's all yours."

John climbs onto the motorcycle with practiced ease, and Sherlock comes and sits behind him. So _this _is what it's like, he muses. His arms snug around John's waist; the front of his legs lined up with John's thighs.

Despite the novelty of trying something like this, John catches on surprisingly quickly. He's observant, if not up to that of Sherlock's level, he knows how to rev the engine, how to lean just so on the curves. Sherlock just holds onto him tight and watches foe boring things like drunk drivers and oncoming traffic.

"Where are we going?" John calls above the rush of wind, after a few minutes of getting his bearings on the bike.

"The yard," Sherlock instructs.

John nods and maneuvers the motorcycle onto the road. He's watched Sherlock rave once before; it scared him for the first couple of minutes: Sherlock was going so fast, and the turns were too sharp, the racers too aggressive. But after that he was all into it; watching with wide eyes and a happy grin whenever Sherlock got ahead.

John kissed him afterwards for each round he had won.

Now John is the one driving, his eyes concentrating and strangely happy. The roads are clean and fairly empty, so if John swerves a little too hard once or twice or goes too fast, Sherlock doesn't mind. John even manages to get them to what the beatniks fondly call, "The Yard," without crashing, and when he slides off Sherlock pulls John to him and kisses him hard. The younger boy is pliant in his arms, used to his sudden embraces. Sherlock likes to fall asleep imagining having John, taking him, doing everything that little John Watson has forbidden so far.

It could be so perfect.

But for now, while John is retaining this idea that because Sherlock hasn't taken him yet he's the most virginal virgin one could lay eyes on, he'll take it. John's presence thrills him, gives him something to do, someone to impress. He's never breathed a word of this aloud to anyone and he's terrified of what he might say given the chance. So he keeps his mouth shut. He lets John's sweet upturned mouth go, and parks his bike to show John around before practice.

John is strangely fascinated by The Yard; it's half flattering and always intrigues Sherlock because the boy seems happy to see everything that Sherlock cares about. Which isn't all that much, to be honest, but it makes John happy. Especially since John has grudgingly been added _to _that small list of stuff Sherlock actually gives two shakes about.

"Do you know anyone here very well?" John inquires, blue eyes looking up expectantly.

Sherlock shrugs. "A couple. There's Seb, over there," he points to an older, rougher looking boy with light brown hair and sharp brown eyes. "He's good friends with Sebastian _Moran,"_ at that point he gestured to the boy that looked older than all the others with cropped black hair and a leather jacket twice as big as Sherlock's.

One boy turned around and smiled at Sherlock as they walked around The Yard. John noticed. "Who's that?"

"Victor." Sherlock for once doesn't sound so careless about who he's referring to.

The boy, Victor, approaches them and John looks him up and down critically. He has brown hair in waves with one little curl over his forehead. His eyes are a frank blue, lighter than John's but darker than Sherlock's silver cerulean ones. He lifts his hand in greeting.

"Sherlock! You haven't been here in awhile…been busy?"

"Oh, yeah. Real busy," Sherlock replies, and Victor _winks. _John feels irritated for some reason.

"I'm John," he says, trying not to sound stiff as he holds out his hand. Victor shakes it politely enough and smiles.

"_John._" He rolls the word around in his mouth and looks up at Sherlock. "He's swell," he grins, and Sherlock actually smiles back. It shocks John as much as interests him because so few people make him smile.

"Thanks. And he's mine," Sherlock responds, but it's almost joking.

John is tired of being left out of this conversation. "So, um, how long have you two known each other?"

"Mm...about four years now," Victor nods, thinking. "We used to go out, him and me," he adds bluntly.

The irritation in John's mind bubbles up to his blood and simmers there. "You did?"

Sherlock looks uncomfortable but Victor doesn't seem to notice. "It started because I saved his life on the track out there," he nodded towards it. "He was about to spin out on a patch of sand and I grabbed his handle-bar."

"Friggin' stupid of you," Sherlock adds.

He grinned. "You're still here, aren't you?"

John looks back at Victor with slightly less animosity. "That was…nice of you…" he gets out.

The boy shrugs. "Nothing he wouldn't have done for me." He looks up at Sherlock and John sees reflected in his eyes the same trust that John sees every time he looks in the mirror now.

Sherlock smiles at Victor and John feels left out and irritated. Mostly irritated because he knows he has no reason to be, but it still hurts. There was someone before him that Sherlock never told him about, which is also ridiculous because they've known each other just over a month now.

The two boys seem to shake themselves out of their reveries and Sherlock looks down at John. "Want to see the rest of the track?"

"Sure," John answers blandly with a shrug.

"Well, I'll see you around, Sherlock," Victor nods with a smile. He turns and gives John a nod. "You too, John."

John is already moving away and manages only a slight head shake by way of goodbye as he heads toward the back of the track.

"John?" Sherlock hurries to catch up with him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," John answers coolly, which is a miserable attempt at lying and he knows it. It does nothing to soothe his useless irritation.

Sherlock, however, seems to want none of it. He pulls John behind the shed and looks at him hard. "No, what is it?"

"Nothing!" John explodes.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

John sighs and runs a hand through his blonde hair. "Sorry, I'm sorry, okay? You didn't tell me you had a previous boyfriend."

Sherlock looks surprised. "Was I supposed to tell you?"

"Well, it's not something I _had _to know, but I was under the impression that I…"

_That I was special. I was your first. _But he can't get the words out; he's never been good at the flowery stuff.

Maybe, though, he doesn't have to.

"Oh." Sherlock says. He seems to understand, which relieves John immensely. "You thought you were…"

"Yeah," John says awkwardly. "Sorry about that."

"Are you jealous?" Sherlock inquires.

John stiffens. "No…"

Sherlock tilts his chin up. "Uhuh."

"I saw the way he looked at you. And how you smiled back; I might not be like you with observing but I'm not blind," John mutters.

"I'm sorry, John...Victor was…Victor was the first person I really cared about," Sherlock manages. "He didn't care what I was, he just liked my personality. I loved him…a lot."

"Do you still?" John can barely say it, he's so nervous, but he has to.

Sherlock looks down at him. "No. Victor and I ended because he left for home. His family needed him and he told me he probably wasn't coming back. We ended it and parted friends, but…"

"But, he came back," John observes.

Sherlock nods. "He's still just my friend, John, nothing more." His tones are quiet and John detects the faint note of vulnerability behind them.

Suddenly John puts his hands on Sherlock's and pushes him against the wall, then he jerks the taller boy's neck down and smooches him, hard. It's warm and demanding and possessive, and he's not even sure how or why he did it. But Sherlock doesn't seem to mind because he pulls John up by his rump and kisses him harder while John's arms go around his neck.

"I don't want this to end," John bites out, pulling away suddenly.

Sherlock's lips are parted and swollen from nips and kisses, and his pupils have dilated to almost twice their normal size. "Me neither."

"I don't want to be _friends, _I don't want to _leave, _and I don't want anyone to mean anything to you like I do." John is shocking even himself; he sounds so selfish. He stares at Sherlock.

"Okay," Sherlock says. "I promise. Nobody ever."

John kisses him again, then, held up by Sherlock's warm hands. "Nothing, not ever."

The dark haired boy nods again and nuzzles his neck. It's almost tender. "Promise," he repeats.

John slides down and regains his breath. "And it goes the same way with me."

"I had thought that was a given," Sherlock smirks, and John grins back. The late afternoon sun is filtering through his golden hair, ruffled up from Sherlock's hands and nose. His eyes are wide and _blue blue blue_…for that one moment he looks so beautiful to Sherlock that he catches his breath.

As they walk back to Sherlock's bike in the growing darkness, he realizes, with swift and agonizing clarity, that little John Watson has him all shook up and cracked into pieces.

**Notes: Hey, guys! Thank you all SOOOO much for your reviews-they're so amazing. :) So, I wanted to tell you that I have created an account with ArchiveofOurOwn, because the tagging system is better there and I like the ease of finding things. However, I'll still be updating here, so no worries! In case you guys ever want to check it out, though, I'm ParadoxinMotion. **

**Answers:**

**Guest: Thank you so much! I like that Sherlock and John fill each other out by being such opposites; like black and white they just ****_go _****together. The story is called Addicted to You because Avicii's song Addicted to You talks about these two lovers who can never part, they need each other so much. And if one were to leave, "What can I do? I'm addicted to you!" :) **


	4. Chapter 4: Addicted to You

Chapter Four:

Addicted to You

**Notes for this chapter: **

**Answers:**

**Guest: I wish I could insert a gif of Sherlock in A Scandal in Belgravia when he's saying, "Thank you, thank you!" But, of course, I can't. :P So I'm afraid you'll have to do with me. Thank you so much for being so supportive; I just wish you'd show me who you are so I can go to your profile and hug you. XD Again, impossible. I'm so grateful for all the people who review my story, so thank you, whoever you are, for taking the time to read it. :)**

**Bulletproofsince1999: Ah, I told you we'd meet again. :D I'm very pleased that you find my story original; before I start any fanfiction it's a constant struggle with me to ask myself, "Has someone done this before? Does it sound stupid? Can I put a new twist on it?" The fact that you told me you ****_hadn't _****read anything like this before was just the best thing ever. I hope I don't disappoint! Also, I hope that link worked out for you. :P **

**Meta-notes: There's a couple of flashbacks in this chapter, like, two…*scans chapter* Ah, yes! Anyway, while my scattered brain collects itself, flashbacks are clearly in italics instead of being put in past-tense, so any grammatical mistakes are mine. :) **

**Warnings for this chapter: Mentions of drug and alcohol misusage, and sort-of-explicit sex scenes. I mean, you guys probably saw this leading up to it, but I'm supposed to warn you beforehand, so. *Raises hands***

**Whew. That was long. You all probably want some actual material now…**

John is no good at casual sex. He wishes sometimes that he was, but the fact remains the same. It also irritates him immensely. He thinks about this as he lies in bed at night, alone, the sheets rumpled around him. He wonders if Sherlock is upset by this; that he hasn't even given him a blowjob yet and he _wants _to so much but part of him is nervous and part of him is shy. What if he screws it up? Sherlock, he knows, has done all this before. If John can't satisfy him, is awkward or stupid and blundering…he sighs softly and turns over on is pillow.

John Watson lies there and wonders if he is a prude.

A month and thirty days; that's how long it's been. Spring is drawing to a close and the blossoms on the plum trees that were in bloom when he and Sherlock met have dropped. Summer's warmth is sneaking through the soft spring haze and the city knows it. It revels in it; high schoolers thinking about dives into cold pools that rippled and danced with light, graduates think of visiting parents and sweethearts. There is the threat of war, looming over them all like a dim, dark cloud, but everyone is able to push it back into the skyline for awhile. _Let them have this one summer of peace_, the newsman says. _There are so many here unaccustomed to the violence of war, of warfare. Let them savor this one last season of hope. _

And hope they do; recklessly abandoning things like _regret _and _sorrow _and _school. _

John listens to that radio broadcast and wonders what exactly he's supposed to be hoping for.

In the meantime, however, he's thinking about what to do. He cares about Sherlock; really does. But ever since that day several weeks ago when he pushed him behind the shed and just _took _him with his mouth, things have been feeling like a buildup. When it would end, when it would finalize and bring itself to completion, was the question. He felt ridiculous for spending so much time agonizing over it, but as he had said before, _I don't want to rush it; I want it to be special. _He still felt the same way, but he was starting to believe he could have that-give that part of him to Sherlock and take a part of him in return, and still be special. Sherlock acted around him differently, it wasn't gentle; Sherlock didn't baby him. But he wasn't just the cool, arrogant greaser he made himself out to be. He told John things, made little reveals of knowledge and stories from his childhood that John could tell had hurt him. Things that had frightened him, made him happy; not everything, but John was content to take things slow.

It wasn't like he was planning on leaving, after all.

He huffs finally and rolls out of bed, heading to the bathroom. He inspects his reflection in the mirror; it's the same each time, he thinks with some amusement. Sandy eyebrows above deep blue eyes over a straight little nose over a nice, normal mouth. (Sherlock personally thinks it's a very kissable, soft mouth, but as he has never mentioned this to John, he will not know.) He gets a glass of water and sighs contentedly. At whatever speed he takes things, Sherlock seems happy, if impatient. His neck and shoulders are marked all over with Sherlock, his kisses, bites, nips spotted in red and purple bruises. It makes John strangely proud, though it means he has to button up his collars extra well or wear a scarf some days.

_"__I don't want to look like a beatnik!" He protests indignantly when Sherlock is latched onto his neck like some overly-possessive vampire. _

_"__Please, you're far too fine," Sherlock scoffs, and John giggles. _

_"__Still!" He pressed, pushing Sherlock regretfully away. "I'll have to wear stuff over this now."_

_Sherlock traces the edge of John's chin with one long finger. He watches him as if John were some sort of interesting specimen he would rather take everything off of to study rather than just unbutton his shirt collar. But then he smiles and the expression dissipates. _

_"__Just button up your shirt really high and nobody will notice," he instructs, kissing John's sweet mouth. It's like a drug to him, something he can get a fix of whenever he feels like it and John is nothing if not encouraging. He kisses Sherlock back with a strange intensity, both unexpected and entirely predictable, really. It's just what John is; the little paradox who's gotten him in way over his head. John's mouth is an ocean and Sherlock wants nothing more than to drown, to sink, to dive into it and never have to come out alive. But, of course, that's entirely impractical as well as impossible, so he contents himself with simply kissing John, marking him up because this is _Sherlock's Ocean, _and nobody else's. John might be a possessive one, but it goes both ways. _

John snaps himself out of the memory and realizes that his hand was tracing one of the fresher lovebites on his skin. He smiles and drops his hand, then relaxes and heads back to bed.

He's just about to drift off to sleep when a lovely idea lights up his brain, and he holds onto it tightly as he slips into dreams.

John takes Sherlock with him to see his sister Harry the next day, who's in town for a day or two. There's something obviously wrong with their familial relationship, Sherlock knows, but something tells him it's not because of who John is. There's something distinctively wrong with _Harry, _and his suspicions are confirmed when the motorcycle pulls up to the little motel where she's staying. John is afraid of very few things; he's not one to every shy away from danger. He tells Sherlock sometimes he's thinking about going to the war to be an army doctor and Sherlock is not entirely sure of what to think of this. But this is different; John is worried about her in some way he doesn't understand. So he walks in with him directly at his side instead of following just a ways behind, and gives him a smile before they head in.

They are immediately greeted by the most terrible stench; if Sherlock hadn't been around this kind of stuff before he would have thought there was a dead body rotting away in here. But, he _has _been in this kind of thing before, because he remembers when his place used to be like this. There is trash everywhere, broken glass and old cartons of food. John marches through it like he's wading through a sea of corpses and Sherlock can do no less than follow.

Harry is on the couch, out cold, a bottle dribbling slightly on the floor where it had dropped from her fingers. An arm is slung over her face as if to shield herself from the light.

John's face is the thing Sherlock remembers best of all; it's a mixture of anger and harsh, twisted pain. Like there was something he created here and he was watching it tear itself to pieces. He drops to Harry's side and shakes her.

"Harry? Harry wake up. _Wake up!" _The fear breaks through into the sharpness of his voice at the last command.

Eventually Harry does awaken, and John is _furious._ Angrier than Sherlock has ever seen him.

"You _told _me you were getting _better!_" He says, his voice very low because John does not shout when he is angry; it's like the rumble of a thunderstorm.

Harry says nothing; she sits in a pathetic heap on the couch and looks at her hands with hollow eyes.

Eventually John is tired of asking her questions she won't answer and telling her how upset he is, and all the while his eyes are pleading so expressively. It hurts Sherlock somewhere he doesn't want to feel if that's all it's capable of doing.

"I'm going home now," John says, composing himself. "Sherlock and I are going to have dinner and tomorrow morning I'm calling mum and dad and asking if you can move in with them. It's this or a place that will help you where you can't get to any of this."

Harry shivers.

The drive home is in relative silence, and John holds onto Sherlock tightly. He seems preoccupied and Sherlock isn't sure of what; he knows he's missing something and that alone irritates him.

When they reach John's apartment, they go upstairs and John tells him to wait in the living room. It's around 6:00 and the shadows are just barely drawing in. Sherlock does as he is told and John goes to his record player. Soon enough _Pale Blue Eyes _is floating through the room with _You Really Got Me _to follow. John smiles shyly and heads into the kitchen.

Sherlock contents himself with a magazine or four until John comes out, shuffling slightly.

"You can come in now," He says, smiling and slightly flushed.

Sherlock drops the magazine and follows slowly, unsure of what to expect.

When he gets there, however, he stops and stares. The table is set neatly with a cream-colored table cloth, and folded napkins in a warm, vibrant red. There are three candles in the middle of the table flickering cheerfully and John has turned the lights off. He's gotten himself fixed up too, Sherlock notes; his hair has been neatly brushed back and his jumper doesn't have a single wrinkle.

"Sit," John says, gesturing to the chairs.

Sherlock awkwardly comes forward, jacket slipping from his shoulders. He lays it down on his chair and takes a seat. John beams and sets down several bowls and a large plate; there's a full roast chicken, and mashed potatoes with garlic, and green beans. Tall glasses full of ice water sit in front of their plates and then John takes his seat.

"D'you like it..?" He asks uncertainly.

Sherlock is unsure of what to say. "You…did all this stuff for me?" He manages finally, looking at the loaded little table.

John nods, blushing slightly. "It's our two-month anniversary."

And suddenly it hits him like a ton of bricks. _Oh. Oh. Oh oh oh…_He looks up at John and the grin breaking across his face threatens to tear his facial muscles.

"It's kind of amazing," he says, and John's smile is positively _radiant. _

The food is great but John's face is greater; Sherlock watches him while he eats and every time John manages to notice another grin envelops his face and Sherlock feels downright infected.

He realizes, when they're working their way through peach pie and ice cream, that John is offering him something. He's taken him to see his sister, cooked him a meal and it's drawing towards 8:00 but John's made no mention of him needing to leave. He feels peaceful; there's no rush and they both know what's going to happen. For someone so ordinary, John can be amazingly perceptive.

Finally when John has cleared away all the dishes and the candles have burned down, Sherlock looks up at him.

"So," he says.

John smiles. "So."

Fifteen minutes later finds them sprawled on the couch, Sherlock is on top of him, John's hands running down his back. They kiss and kiss, until their lips are swollen and chapped, and then they keep kissing. John moans softly underneath Sherlock's touches and the taller boy kisses his way down his neck, rolling his hips against him. John's eyes are scrunched closed in pleasure and Sherlock watches him, every little flicker of emotion across his face, every gasp that John lets out fuels this fire.

He takes John in his hand and strokes him until he's a whimpering mess; he's hard so quickly. It satisfies Sherlock in an odd way, and when he takes him in his mouth John shudders and moans long and loud. His hands weave through Sherlock's dark hair and tug lightly, spurring him on, but he is going to savor John, drop by drop. Moan by moan, shudder by shudder.

John is so new to this that he climaxes in less than six minutes; Sherlock's relentless stimulation has him falling to pieces and crying out his name. John sinks boneless underneath him and Sherlock wraps his arms around him.

"Wow…" John breathes, looking with excited blue eyes up at him.

Sherlock smirks and kisses him. "That was pretty good."

"_Pretty good?_" John scoffs. "That was fantastic!"

Sherlock smiles. "Not what people would normally say."

"And what do people normally say?" John inquires with some amusement.

Sherlock kisses his smooth little cheek. "Depends on the person."

"And what about me?"

"Well, you obviously think it was the most amazing sensation you've ever experienced, which is of course ludicrous, but still," Sherlock pretends to huff.

John giggles and pulls him down. "Can we do it again?" He breathes.

Sherlock brushes over his face with his fingers. "Yeah, but I want to try something."

John looks promptly interested. "What?"

"Come to the bedroom and I'll show you," Sherlock smirks again, lidded eyes full of promise.

John looks at him oddly when he suggests it, but it's not an averse face. "But…how does that work? We're both boys."

He's laid out in his own bed like a decadent treat, and Sherlock is carefully unbuttoning his shirt. He pulls it carefully from John's shoulders and prepares to lean over. But John stops him, laying a hand on his chest.

"I want to see you too," He murmurs, sitting up and hesitantly putting his hands on Sherlock's shirt collar.

The taller boy nods. "Okay…"

John takes his time undressing him; each button carefully undone to reveal his chest, inch by inch. Finally Sherlock steps out of his trousers, and then his underwear and John looks up at him in awe.

"What?" Sherlock demands, feeling strangely self conscious.

"You're beautiful," John says, and pulls him down with him.

After some moments of kissing and groping, Sherlock pulls back and carefully spreads John's legs.

"It's fairly simple," he explains. "There's this outer ring of muscle; that's the hard part. But inside," he coats his finger with saliva and presses it lightly against John's entrance, "it's warm and flexible. It's muscle; that's what it does."

John is watching him. "I understand," he nods. Sherlock would bet he does; he's as good with the human body as any aspiring doctor, and it makes Sherlock oddly proud.

"Now then," the dark-haired boy resumes, "I'm going to press my fingers in and stretch you out."

"Okay. And, I don't mind if it hurts…much," John adds. "I'll get used to it."

Sherlock smiles and presses his fingers inside. John tilts his head back and moans, pushing against them as Sherlock stretches him out, nice and easy.

"How does it feel?" He inquires.

John can only nod, his thighs trembling. Sherlock takes this as a good sign and gently draws his fingers out.

"Ready?" He asks, and John opens his eyes.

"Yeah," he breathes.

Sherlock smiles and can't resist planting a kiss on those soft, ripe lips. Then he bends back down and wets and pushes and _holds _John until he's writhing beneath him, helpless with pleasure.

Sherlock is stretched over him, kissing him lushly as their bodies rock together slowly. His lips fasten onto one hardened nipple and he sucks, making sure John's wide eyes are focused on him. He rolls his hips and thrusts in and out, building up John's pleasure gradually.

When John comes again, it is the most beautiful thing Sherlock thinks he's ever seen. Sounding cliché aside, if they could see what he saw, they'd think so too. He chants Sherlock's name over and over as he spurts, then once again falls boneless underneath him. Sherlock spills into him shortly after, murmuring _Mine, mine, so beautiful, mine. _

"I love you," John mumbles when they lie panting together, trying to get their breath back.

Sherlock lifts his head and presses a soft kiss, free of lust, to John's temple. "I know," he rumbles, and John smiles.

They sleep twined together, tangled amidst the sheets. John nuzzles into the crook of Sherlock's neck, and the older boy holds him tightly, calling him sweet names. _Darling, baby, sweetheart; _they're not words John would have expected Sherlock to say, and yet they ring on his ears with a strange gentleness. He has never been happier in his life. They wake up every few hours or so and with the propensity of youth, have sex again. Mostly blowjobs; John was eager to try that one and Sherlock was anything but against it.

When it's half-past five in the morning, and they are both about to drift off to a weekend's worth of sleep, John asks, "So, as anniversary presents go, was this one okay?"

"No," Sherlock answers, holding John close.

John looks momentarily disappointed, but Sherlock amends that statement quickly.

"It was much, much better than that."

And John drops off to sleep with a happy smile on his face.

**Notes: Wow…that ended up long. XD Sorry, guys. I hope this was satisfactory. Really, really hope so, because I've re-written the past two pages about three times. :P In case it ****_wasn't _****good, don't worry. It's not like this is the ****_only _****time they'll be having sex…;) **


	5. Chapter 5: Liar, Liar (Hearts on Fire)

Chapter Five: Liar, Liar (Hearts on Fire)

**Warnings for this chapter: Slightly Dark!Sherlock, Possessive!Sherlock and obscure references of violence. Are warning supposed to throw you off or draw you in? **

**Answers:**

**Guest: Hehehe. :D I'm not terribly familiar with who that is, actually, but I will be sure to look them up. Thanks so much!**

**Bulletproofsince1999: Well, here now is "mooaaarrrr." ;) **

"If I asked you, would you leave all this?" John inquires over breakfast some days later. The transition was quick but well-thought; Sherlock has moved into John's dingy apartment despite said John's better judgment. His things are unpacked, and neatly put all around. His violin, an odd instrument for someone like Sherlock, but he's really brilliant at playing, lies tucked against the wall next to John's record player. His clothes are put into the right hand side of the drawers and his boots sit in the closet. John feels proud, and the fact that Sherlock can come up to him and _kiss _him and _touch _him in the privacy of their own place feels amazing. After a long discussion with Harry, Sherlock out practicing in The Yard, they have decided that she will move into Sherlock's old room. It's close to John's apartment, has a phone, and she knows that John will be watching her rigorously. One misstep, he warns, and he'll take her sixty miles east to where ma and pa are wringing their hands. It's not a fate he'd call kind, or hopeful, he knows. But she's driven herself to it, and there's not much else he can do. So she lives there, and he lives here, and each night a beautiful boy takes him to bed and he has someone to say, _I love you _to. Which leads him to a very such breakfast as he is now having, that very same boy across the table drinking coffee.

Sherlock looks up. "What, like leave town and move off somewhere?"

"I guess," John shrugs. "Just, would you, if I asked?"

Sherlock pauses to consider this. It's one of the things John likes most about him, actually…he doesn't make empty promises. He sits and thinks through something, not that it takes him very long.

"Yeah," he nods finally, looking up. "But why?"

"I don't know." John frowns. "I just…the war's kind of _looming, _you know, and there's Harry, and _us, _and-"

"Hey." Sherlock grabs his hand suddenly with surprising zealousness. "The war isn't going to change a damn thing. And we'll sort Harry out. As for us, nothing could ever make me want to just ditch it." His pale eyes are sparks. "So garner up some faith, because I am not _ever _letting you go."

John squeezes his hand, some of the pressure relieved with the words. "Thanks…I'm sorry. I'm just strung up, I guess." He smiles at him. "I'm really glad you're here to keep me straight."

Sherlock grins. "Straight? Who said anything about straight?"

John leans forward a little, tipping his chair. "Are you trying to turn me queer, Mr. Holmes?" He smiles.

"Oh, yeah." Sherlock's voice is almost a purr. It makes John shiver and he'd feel like an idiot if he wasn't so caught up in it. "I intend to make you as absolutely _queer _as possible."

John can smell the coffee on his breath, he's so close now. "And how are you going to do that?"

"Same way I always do," Sherlock smirks, and grabs John's collar and mashes their mouths together. It's nostalgic of when they first met and John grins against his lips, scooting forward in his chair. After what seems a small eternity but is in reality about two minutes, Sherlock lets him go and stands up.

"Don't you have to get ready for work?" He inquires.

"Aside from brushing my teeth and making sure my collar's buttoned up," John smiles, "I'm ready."

"Why're you so intent on hiding them?" Sherlock wonders, examining the bruises and nips on John's little neck.

John's small tanned hand covers over his. Well, almost. "I'm not _ashamed _of them, Sherlock. I just don't think it necessary for everyone to see them," he explains. "It's more…special…than that, if that makes any sense. Not just _anybody _should see them." As if unsure, he looks up at Sherlock, who is smiling.

"Better," he nods, and actually drops a kiss on John's warm cheek. "Be safe, baby."

John flushes at the word. "Well, it's not like I'm in a _huge _amount of danger working at a drugstore," he jokes.

Sherlock smiles again. "Hurry up, or you'll be late."

"And you care now?" John asks, pressing the flats of his hands against Sherlock's chest, awaiting his due.

It comes a moment later when Sherlock presses his lips to the smaller boy's; it's deep and intimate and achingly tender. Sometimes John thinks Sherlock is two different people entirely. Or maybe he just made himself that way for him, he mused as he went down the stairs and began walking to work.

He can tell there's something different when he gets there. A stuffy sort of atmosphere is floating around in a palpable gray mass and it's manifesting itself in the looks people are giving him. He makes his way to his counter, trying to appear like he doesn't notice Mrs. Hudson staring at him oddly.

"Who's first?" He inquires cheerfully.

No one answers.

"Um, sorry, did I miss something?" John looks around the room at their faces.

Mrs. Turner can contain herself no more. "Is it true?' The words are almost barked out.

"I'm sorry?" John is feeling more and more confused.

"Your sister said it was," Mrs. Turner continues, and a stone drops into John's chest. But he forces himself to stay calm.

"What was it she said?" He inquires mildly.

"You're a _queer_," Mrs. Hudson drops in for her neighbor's sake. "But you can't be, can you? I've known you for a year now, John…weren't you dating Sarah just a month or two ago?"

_Why, yes, I did date Sarah, eight months ago, _John wants to say, but he doesn't. Instead, he looks at the faces again. All the faces of the customer's, employees, ect. All staring at him, waiting for him to deny it.

John is opening his mouth to say the words, _My sister is a drunk; you can't believe what she says, I'm going to let her stay with my parents until she's better. Of course I'm not queer. _

But then he gets an image of Sherlock; calling him _baby, _calling him _beautiful _and _mine. _Sherlock's kisses, Sherlock's smirks. And he can't do it; of course he can't do it. His father would stare and call him a sissy, but John doesn't give two shakes. Not anymore. Because this is why he moved, right? To be somewhere _else; _where he could admit to that sort of thing and not have everyone _staring. _But, yet again, here he is.

He squares his shoulders, and looks Mrs. Turner in the oculars. "No, Sarah and I broke up months ago. I actually don't really like girls like that, and she understood. I have a boyfriend." Then he breathes deeply.

It's like a small explosion; the whispers and the grunts and the looks thrown his way. In an earlier time, John would have shrunk. He was shrinking internally now; his cheeks are burning. But he won't back down, not now. He has too much on the line and too little to lose.

But then, his co-worker Mary steps up and looks at him, her blue eyes sorrowful. "John?"

It's not a question, not really. Behind the simple interrogative is a meaning much more profound. John knows what's coming next.

He wishes Sherlock was here; he wants his warm, safe arms around him, his pale eyes staring at the people around him as hard as they are at him, daring them to ask a question. But he isn't; he's working today at The Yard, and John has to do this alone.

Mrs. Turner stalks up to the counter and lays her laminated member's card on the clean countertop. "I'm _done _with this store," she huffs, looking rather like an angry crow. "I was told it was clean; _sanitary; _filled with good, honest employees. Not queers that hide until their own family brings them to light!"

John looks at the card staring blankly up at it, the plastic cool under his fingers. "Ma'am, wait!" He calls. "That isn't fair; you shouldn't leave just because of me! It _is _clean here; there's _nothing _unsanitary!" His eyes are pleading, but Mrs. Turner has already shut the door to the drugstore with a vicious _click! _

"John, how could you?" Mrs. Hudson sighs.

"I-I-" John is dazed. Everyone is trickling away. The store manager, Mr. Moran, is coming out of his office, his face grim. Mary trails behind him.

"John?" He inquires, looking down at the boy in front of him.

"Yes, sir?" John says, hands shaking.

Moran sighs and wipes a hand down his face. "John, I'm sorry, but we can't have this. I didn't know you were…like that." He shrugs almost helplessly.

_No, of course you didn't know, did you think I wanted you to? _John thinks. _Why would I have kept it a damn secret if I did?_

"Mr. Moran, please! I'm not dirty; I haven't done anything!" John exclaims. "It's not fair…people are leaving…"

"Exactly." Moran gestures with his hand. "Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson have already left their cards, and will not be coming here again. They're gossips; this news is going to spread like wildfire."

_And all because of one wretched girl who didn't even know what she was saying…_John thinks wearily.

"Then fire me," he says quietly. "You said it yourself; the news is going to spread. If you don't fire me, people will stop coming."

Moran looks mildly surprised. "I'm not going to fire you, Watson. I came out here to tell you that I'm sorry about your sister, and this is bad. It's going to be very different, you know, if you stay."

John nods; he feels hollow. There's this awful prickling sensation behind his eyelids.

"I'm leaving the choice to you, John." Moran says finally. John looks up at him. "Stay, or go."

He nods and sighs softly.

"If you want to leave for the day," Moran says gruffly, "you can. I'd imagine you want to think about it."

John shakes his head numbly. "N-non thank you, sir. I'll think fine by myself in here."

Moran nods, and strides back to his office.

"Thirty-eight!" The bike skids to a stop at the painted gravel line. Sherlock takes off his helmet and Victor grins. "That was your fastest one yet! Cleared the track in thirty eight seconds."

Sherlock shrugs. "Next time, it'll be better."

"Sherlock?" Victor has an odd look on his face. "Wilkes came over here and said something while you were practicing."

"Oh, yeah?" Sherlock isn't paying much attention.

"They know," Victor says quietly, and Sherlock's head snaps up.

"What?"

Victor nods. "I was right here with you, so you know I had nothing to do with it. Wilkes came and told me John's sister blabbed about it…she broke down and went to the bar. Told everyone that you two are queer and she doesn't care who knows it."

Sherlock's face has darkened. "Where is John?"

"I think he's still at the store; Wilkes said they were giving him a rough time, and he's is no wimp," Victor answers, genuine concern in his voice. "I'm sure John is getting it pretty hard there."

Sherlock is already climbing back onto his Pirate.

"Sherlock, where are you going?!" Victor demands with some worry.

"To get John," Sherlock grunts, revving his engine.

Victor sighs. "Don't kill anyone, least of all yourself."

"I won't," Sherlock promises, and then he's gone. Victor watches him go until he can only hear him, but no longer see him.

There are two things swirling around in Sherlock's head, mostly. _John _and _Harry. _He's worried for John and furious with Harry. How _dare _she tell them that? John had done _everything _for her, he seethes, and for what? He knows he has a naturally quick temper, but this would tempt a saint. He's going to be having a word with her later.

When he pulls up to the drugstore, it's so empty that he doesn't even bother to park his bike properly. He runs to the door and pushes it open, the bell _dinging! _Savagely.

John is sitting at his counter, head in his hands, his body curled in on itself. It looks like he's been beaten over and over with invisible rods and he's just trying to shield what little of him is left. It makes Sherlock's chest ache.

"John."

John's head flies up and Sherlock moves toward him. "Sherlock!" He breathes, burying his face in the taller boy's chest. Sherlock wraps his arms around him and breathes in the warm, clean smell of John's shampoo. He looks down at him.

"Did anyone hurt you?" He demands, stepping back and cupping John's face.

John shakes his head, smiling happily. It's odd how happy he gets just by being near Sherlock. And rather wonderful. "No, I'm okay. It's just…" he looks around the empty store. "Nobody's been here since this morning. Nobody."

Sherlock wraps him in his arms again. "Let's leave."

"I don't want to look like I'm a quitter," John answers stubbornly.

"You won't." Sherlock kisses his neck. "Nobody's going to think that."

John sighs and curls into him. "Moran gave me a choice," he explains. "He said he wouldn't fire me, but either I could leave or stay. Depending on how much I was willing to take."

Sherlock nods. "We could find you something else to do."

John grins slightly. "We could start up a detective business."

"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock is smiling, though. "I'm not a detective and I would barely get any clients."

"You could consult people then, about their problems."

"A consulting detective?" Sherlock sounds amused; he's glad that John is finding a distraction.

"Yeah, I guess." John shrugs. "It's ridiculous."

"Yes, it is, and so are you." Sherlock kisses him. John holds him tight and leans into him. When he lets him go, Sherlock smiles.

"Let's blow this pop stand."

"Ahh, ah, Sherlock!" John pushes back against him, Sherlock's hands tight on his hips.

Sherlock thrusts, moaning softly at the decadent feeling of John's arse. It's hot and tight and perfect; for awhile he can forget everything else.

John is on his hands and knees, the bed creaking with each push. He clenches around him and moans, his prostate being relentlessly battered. He's so new to this and yet it feels like they've been doing it years; already he knows how to move, when to relax. He's so perfect, Sherlock thinks, in a haze of pleasure. And he loves him, he really does. Sherlock could just spend forever pounding him into the mattress, listening to John asking him for more. But, of course, he can't. It has to end, just like everything else. When he comes, it's with a cry and John is whimpering softly, his orgasm is so strong, as he follows after. He crumples into Sherlock's arms and sighs softly, leaning against him. Sherlock kisses his neck gently.

"Shh…I've got you…"

John sighs. "I know."

"Are you still thinking about your job?" Sherlock inquires, though he already knows the answer.

John smiles slightly. "Gee, I have no idea why you'd think that."

"You sound exhausted," Sherlock observes, kissing behind his ear.

John tips his face up. "After such a ruthless orgasm, can you blame me?"

"A _ruthless _orgasm?" Sherlock pretends to look offended. "Sounds a bit harsh."

"Mm." John kisses him. "I don't care."

"Is that why you asked me," Sherlock inquires suddenly. "To do it hard? Because you just wanted to knock it out of your head?"

"I guess," John shrugs. "It was too much and I just didn't want to _think…" _

"No, don't talk like that." Sherlock cleans them both up carefully, looking up at John every few moments. "You're just…strung too tight, baby."

John nods. "Yeah, well. I'm still not sure what I want to do."

"What about Harry?" Sherlock asks, face darkening.

John sighs and curls into him. "I don't…I don't know. I just don't know how to help her anymore. She won't listen to me…she was so angry last night and she…" his voice trails off, the thought left unfinished.

Sherlock nods, mind working. "That's a pretty damn crappy thing to do to your only sibling. Let alone your little brother."

"I'm not little," John scoffs, but Sherlock's protective hold on him makes him happy all the same.

"You should sleep," Sherlock tells him gently.

John scrubs a hand over his face. "I can't…my head really hurts and I can't stop thinking."

Sherlock kisses his temple over and over, humming softly. "Quit thinking. It's annoying."

"I didn't even say anything!" John defends himself irritably.

"You were thinking," Sherlock repeats, kissing those sweet lips. "Which is making you unhappy. Which is annoying."

John smiles slightly at that and closes his eyes, settling under the covers. "Okay. No more thinking."

He drifts off surprisingly quickly, and Sherlock watches him sleep. His face is quieter, forehead still wrinkled slightly from a mind not at ease, but it's better, at least. He lies there almost an hour, just touching him. The soft skin of his ear, the curve of his cheek. The little hollow under his bottom lip.

At around 12:07 AM, he slides out of bed and gets dressed quietly. Then he goes downstairs and locks the door.

Sherlock sleeps late the next morning, and as soon as he wakes up, it's because John is staring at him with frightened eyes and pointing to the newspaper.

"Look at this!" He exclaims. "We have to go see her, now!"

Sherlock takes the morning paper and looks over it, silvery eyes glinting. "What about what she did? Are you just going to let that go?"

John stares at him. "Sherlock. She's my _sister._ I can't just leave her alone." His eyes are pained. "Please come with me…"

Sherlock wraps his arms around him and holds him tightly. "Of course I'll come with you, John. What else do you think I'd do?"

John sighs in relief. "I don't know. But I want to know who did this."

Sherlock nods. "We'll find them, John. Don't worry."

John's smile is so trusting.

It makes his chest ache.

**Notes: Whew. The chapters are getting longer, but that's actually fine. :P Originally, the goal was for this to be ten chapters and an epilogue as a sort of next chapter, with each chapter being about ten pages long. So, I'm good on that. I hope you all are continuing to enjoy it so far. You're all amazing. A little warning, things are going to start heading downhill from here, so buckle your seat belts. Or, if you like this sort of thing, I hope you enjoy it. **


	6. Chapter 6: Never Let Me Go

Chapter Six:

**Notes: **

**Warnings for this chapter: Angst, memory loss, drunkenness. I can't think of anything all **_**that **_**bad, but if I do, or you do, remind me and I'll put it in. :) **

**Answers:**

**The Consulting Panda: Hey, thanks for the idea. .Net is being a real pain with formatting right now, but I'll try to keep working on it. It won't let me inset lines or even double space. I'm so sorry if this confuses anyone!**

**Bulletproofsince1999: Indeed. ;) **

_Love me tender, love me dear, tell me you are mine, _Elvis is crooning, but this scene is a very different one. John is perched on the hospital bed, his deep blue eyes as worried as can be. Sherlock stands behind him; a protective presence. Harry's monitor beeps.

_Fractured rib, glass imbedded in the flesh. Possible sustainment of cranial damage, _read the diagnosis. John has read over it a total of eight times, and each time he looks up at his older sister as she sleeps, wasted and thin. His mind is a two-way battle against concern for her and anger against whoever did this, but there's a gentle, nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach suggesting, _Maybe she did this to herself. _

But no; why would she? For all the stupid things Harry had done, she'd never been suicidal. Although, perhaps, the drink and the drugs were just as much a form of suicide as offing yourself with a fall and a glass bottle was. It hurt, and it was confusing, and if Sherlock wasn't there John isn't sure what he would do. He holds onto tightly to his boyfriend's hand; it's a needy gesture and he feels vaguely pathetic, but most of him just doesn't care. Sherlock's hand is warm and strong, and he's not ashamed to do it. He was always less bothered by this stuff than John was.

Harry sleeps, and he waits.

Harry wakes, finally, and she is perhaps the most surprised she has ever been to see her younger brother hovering over her. Her eyes, once the same deep blue as John's, but now faded and reddened from drink and drugs, are wide.

"John?"

John's smile is blinding. "Harry," he grins, and pulls her into a gentle hug. It hurts her, Sherlock can tell, but it's obvious she doesn't care. She's still trying to process why he or John would be there at all, and her arms nervously wrap around him.

"You scared me half to death!" John exclaims, pulling back. "And it looked like you were already halfway there."

Harry smiles slightly. "I'll be just fine."

"Does it hurt much?" John asks; his tone is so sweet, Sherlock observes. He still cares about her a lot.

Harry shrugs. "It hurt worse when I first got here, believe me."

John's eyes darken again. "Who did this? Do you remember?"

Harry shakes her head with a sigh. "I'm sorry; I'm _really _trying. But it's so fuzzy," she drops her head, obviously thinking she's disappointed John.

But he always was a little paradox, as Sherlock remembers.

"Hey, it's okay. It's not your fault," he says gently, tilting her chin up. "It's going to be okay."

Harry nods with that same trusting smile.

John has been becoming more publicly withdrawn, Sherlock notes. He still works at the drugstore, but he's quieter, and some days he won't ride with Sherlock. It hurts, and it makes him angry. Why should he have to do this?

"John, please," he pleads, when John is shaking his head on the front doorstep. "Don't do this; you don't have to."

John sighs. "Please, Sherlock, I'm really sorry. But I _can't._"

"Why not?" The taller boy demands.

"Because I don't want anyone to hurt you!" John nearly shouts, his little fists curled up. It's obvious he instantly regrets the action, as he shuts his mouth and turns his body to the side.

Sherlock is staring. "Nobody's going to hurt me. It's you I'm worried about."

"I'm _fine," _John says shortly.

"Like hell you are," Sherlock growls, his silvery eyes getting that possessive look John either loves or hates, but never in-between. "Nobody's going to touch you. They know who I am. They know I'd kill anyone who hurt you."

John nods, sighing again. "I know."

Sherlock drops to his knees, his arms held out slightly. "There isn't any me if there isn't any you," he says stubbornly. "I _love _you, and I'm not letting this get between us because we're having a little rough patch." He goes silent after that, as if worried about letting something else slip out.

John is surprised; Sherlock's almost never like this. He isn't needy like John is; he gives him what he needs. He turns back towards his boyfriend, who's sitting on his knees on what looks like a very uncomfortable set of stairs. And he can't do it.

"Okay." He says simply, pulling Sherlock to his feet with some effort.

Sherlock cups his face and kisses him, tender. He doesn't say anything, but John doesn't really need him to.

"I love you too," he murmurs, running his fingers through Sherlock's silky curls, arms wrapped around his waist. "We'll be alright."

Sherlock nods. He even lets him drive the motorcycle to dinner, holding onto him tight. He's not letting go of him now.

Sherlock works harder, races faster. His mind is always split up into to parts: _John _and _everything else. _Everything else usually gets put into a back corner until he's certain that John is alright. Harry is getting better, but John is getting worse. He won't tell Sherlock what people say to him, but Sherlock can guess. He always looks so terribly tired after he comes home from work; his young face is tired and worn out in a way it definitely shouldn't be. Some nights he's so tired Sherlock doesn't try to initiate sex; he just holds him. John loves to be held; he loves how Sherlock's arms wrap around him and fit so nicely. He sleeps tucked into Sherlock's side, the older boy running his hand soothingly down his back.

"One day," he says one night, before John drifts to sleep, "I'm going to take you off somewhere, where nobody'll care who we are. California is good for that sort of stuff, I hear; Nevada, too."

John smiles up at him. "How would we do that?"

"I'll win a race or something…save up the winning money. Then take you somewhere safe."

"But I am safe," John smiles, listening to Sherlock's heartbeat. "I'm right here with you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "John Watson, you're what they call a romantic."

John giggles. "Says the boy who wants to carry me off somewhere into the sunset."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock smirks. "The sunset would be impossible to reach anyway, and far too hot. I do not tan well."

John is shaking with laughter; it's good to see him easing up a bit, Sherlock thinks. "We'll get you a lot of sunblock."

"Why would we want sunblock if we're heading into the sunset?" Sherlock inquires solemnly, and kisses him. John wraps his arms around him and kisses him back, his sweet mouth smiling into his.

He lets Sherlock suck him off, watching breathlessly as his boyfriend's curly head bobs around his erection.

"I love you," Sherlock says, kissing the tip and licking a stripe up to the root, making John shiver. "I love this."

"I love you too," John replies, like he always does, fingers carding through his hair. He really does love his hair.

He closes his eyes and thrusts gently into his mouth, simply savoring the sensation of Sherlock's hot mouth surrounding him. It's perfect; it's right; it's exactly where he wants to be.

"You are perfect," Sherlock promises him, and John comes then and there. Sherlock licks him clean and them scoops him up in his arms, spooning him. John falls asleep with a happy sigh, nuzzling into Sherlock's neck before turning around.

It is the happiest they will be for a long time.

It's three days later when they argue. Sherlock wants John to go out to dinner with him; John is studying.

"You never pull your head out of those stupid books!" He shouts.

John's face pales. "I'm rarely _in _them these days!"

"You're so tired all the time; your job takes the stuff out of you, and then you come home and do _more _work."

John's face stiffened. "I want to do something that will make money-enough money for both of us someday!"

"Are you saying I don't make enough?" Sherlock demands, stalking off.

"Sherlock, I-" John shuts his mouth as the door slams, and he crumples into the couch.

After midnight, John is so tired he has to go to sleep. Sherlock still isn't back yet, and he's shaking and hyper from worry and weariness. He crawls into bed, but he does not sleep. He waits.

Waits until he hears the long-expected sound of the door opening, and heavy steps on the stairs. He hurries out of bed and gets to the stairs where a heavily inebriated Sherlock slumps.

"John…" he slurs, looking up at him. "You're here."

"Of course I'm here, you idiot!" John helps him up the last few steps. "Where else would I be."

"Don't know," the taller boy shrugs as he settles onto the bed and John pulls his boots off. "You wouldn't come…"

"Sherlock, baby, I had to study." John is holding back tears; he's never seen Sherlock this bad.

Sherlock looks down at him. "Do you still love me?" His tone is wistful.

"Wh-of course I do. Don't do that." John pulls off his socks and jacket. "I love you, sweetheart, I love you so much."

Sherlock nods, still watching him. "You're so nice," he says after a pause. "And sweet, and perfect. But you don't love me forever, because I'm not. I'm rude, and selfish," he says bitterly, hiding his face in his hands.

John sets his things down. "I won't. I won't. I promise, I won't."

Sherlock crawls into bed and closes his eyes. "I'll make you, then. I'll do something and you won't love me anymore."

John is crying.

Sherlock sits up and touches his shoulders. "Don't cry," he says softly, drunken voice gentle. His thumbs brush away his tears. "You're so beautiful; I love your eyes. Please don't cry."

John nods, holding onto Sherlock's hands, cupped around his smaller face. "I love you. I do."

"I know." Sherlock's smile is so happy, but his mouth is trembling.

John pulls him into his arms. "Shh…it's okay. It's okay. I've got you."

Sherlock cries, and John wraps himself around him like a blanket to a baby. He clings to him, and for once John is able to easily repay everything the boy's said to him. _Baby, I've got you. Sweetheart, don't cry. _

"John, my John." He sobs, clutching John's sleeve. As if his ownership over John's heart, his body, his love, will somehow make him hang on longer. "I'm sorry…I'm really sorry…I'm so sorry…"

John hums softly and strokes his back; but he doesn't know what Sherlock is so sorry about. He looks so damn guilty; it hurts John deep inside. He hates it down to his very core.

Eventually Sherlock stops crying, and lies very still, his curly head tucked into John's neck. It's the most vulnerable John's ever seen him.

"I love you, John," he murmurs, holding onto him tightly.

"I know," John whispers. "I know."


	7. Chapter 7: Family Dedication

Chapter Seven:

Family Dedication

**Answers:**

**Bulletproofsince199: It'll be explained, I promise. But you should know I'm a rather shifty author. So don't trust anything. Unless you trust it to be untrustworthy.**

**Notes: Little extra missive: Previously I had been updating every day or so. But because of school and figuring out what I need to do this summer, I'm going to be more regular and do it on Wednesdays and Saturdays. :) Hopefully, I'll remain pretty consistent. This is, after all, only the first part in a series. **

**2. A little clearing up of the timeline: John is seventeen and Sherlock is nineteen. John finished up his last year of high school the spring of the year this takes place, which is why I mentioned the high schoolers getting out. John studies during the summer and plans to go to the university to become a doctor. In my story, his parents aren't as rich as Sherlock's but they're fairly well off and have saved enough money for this to happen. When John left to go his own way, they kept the money but still have it in savings in case he were to come back. I hope this clears up any confusion that might arise in this chapter. :)**

**OoO**

John is drifting in a sea of doubt. It's so strange; this feeling of uncertainty, where before there was nothing but surety. And it doesn't even _hurt, _really; it's an emptiness. John would gladly take the greatest pain Sherlock could offer over this. It's _loss _and _forgetting _what it even felt like to _have _and a continual loop of feelings.

He goes to visit Harry regularly and each time it's like Sherlock wants to go with him less and less. He feels like he's missing something but he can't place it; it's irritation bubbling under the surface of the already apparent tension.

Sherlock has started to slow down on his drag racing; John realizes that they're going to the Yard less and less frequently. He finds himself pleading with Sherlock just to get him up, to _do _something.

"Let's go to the Yard today," he says, a smile on his face. He strokes Sherlock's arm gently and looks down at him hopefully.

Sherlock shakes his head, curled up in bed.

"Out, then?" John suggests, his tone still cheerful.

"No," Sherlock says, and John swears he sees a little shiver go through him.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" He asks, holding him tight. "Please tell me; let me fix it."

Sherlock laughs. "John, please. You know I'm always the one fixing you."

It wouldn't have hurt so much if the laugh hadn't been so hollow.

OoO

John is so hungry; his stomach has stopped growling and he feels even emptier than before. But he's not hungry; his stupid body wants food but he-him, the thing that actually thinks about this, will not leave Sherlock.

_Sherlock loves me, he's alright, I'm alright, we're going to be okay. _

John's not sure which parts are lies and which parts are his mind just desperately hoping.

"Have I done something?" He asks desperately one night, when Sherlock has not spoken for hours and the shadows under his eyes are growing darker.

He does not answer.

John stalks forward and positions himself in front of him-_him_; a word summing up something he loves so much. Something he absolutely refuses to let slip away.

"_Sherlock._ Please. What. Have. I. Done."

Sherlock lifts his silvery eyes to John's, and he shakes his head.

And suddenly, John is very, very angry.

"Not good enough." His voice is quiet.

Sherlock has the grace to look guilty.

"I said, "_Not good enough," _John repeats, staring at him. "If I've done something; if something's happened, if I-"

"Yes!" Sherlock bursts out; so suddenly John flinches and starts backwards. He takes a step back and feels the hard wood of the mantelpiece against his shoulder blades.

"It's _always _you, John." Sherlock steps towards him. "It's always you," he mutters, looking down for a moment. Then he glances up, eyes a mixture of defiance and…something else. There's a pain there that hurts John, it has to hurt him just as much as it's hurting Sherlock.

"Is it something I've done?" John asks, more gently this time. He moves forward, even dares to reach out and take one of his lover's long, slender hands.

Sherlock shakes his head. "It's you, but you haven't done it."

"What's happened?" John is almost unconsciously gently pulling Sherlock into him.

"_I _did it. It was me." Sherlock's voice is little more than a whisper.

"Did what?" John inquires tenderly, now holding him against his shorter body, rubbing his back.

Sherlock lifts his head, messy curls brushing John's cheek as he murmurs three words into his ear.

John stiffens, certain he's misheard. "What?"

"I already said it, I'm not going to repeat it, John." Sherlock's weariness and pain are almost touchable. John could reach up and watch his hand sifting it; dark into grey and silver blue.

He's so startled, like an animal that sees the hunter just a moment too late. He can't even draw away from Sherlock, hell, he can't even _move. _

"Sherlock." His voice is shaking.

Said Sherlock wraps his arms around him and holds on tight, as if John were his only lifeline. And by now, he just might be.

"Why?" John asks, though he already knows the answer.

"I couldn't let anyone hurt you," Sherlock explains, as if this clears up everything. He sounds like a child that's eager to please its parent; uncomprehending of the weight of his actions.

"Sherlock, she's my _sister. _You could have killed her." John is trying to pull himself together; he's trying so hard.

"I wouldn't have-I promise!" Sherlock looks up at him. "Please, John, please don't be angry."

John is so tired he's not sure how he feels.

"I-I need to tell someone…the police…_Harry, _at the very least, deserves to know," He says, more to himself than anyone.

Sherlock looks terrified. "Please don't. Please, John. I'll never do it again, I swear. Please."

"Sherlock, I _have _to!" John says desperately. "It's the right thing to do!"

"But she hurt you-I just wanted to keep you safe!"

"You're hurting me right now much more than she ever did!" John shouts.

Then he lets Sherlock go and stumbles down the stairs. His eyes are so blinded with tears he nearly falls down the last four.

Things are getting worse. They're drifting apart, John feels like he's been struck by lightning. Like everything is being burned out and blackened.

He's trying to understand; Sherlock has told him what's been keeping him up, but the _guilt _is still there…it makes John wonder if something else is wrong. He wants to ask him, but sometimes he feels so far away from Sherlock that despite the fact that they sleep in the same bed and eat at the same table, he can't. He just can't do it, and he calls himself a coward for it. He knows he's doing nothing to help Sherlock, and he _could. _He feels certain of it.

He lies in bed beside Sherlock, and it's one of the rare nights when his lover's, (When did Sherlock graduate from _boyfriend _to _lover? _He wonders,) face is turned towards him. His face has always seemed beautiful to John, but the night gives it a soft, almost translucent appearance. He looks childish and almost vulnerable, and John aches to hold him. He should be; it's right, it's just. It's _fair. _But he can't, because there's a wall between them and he doesn't know yet how to break it down. Harry's injury lies heavy between them and though she still does not remember and the doctor said she might never, he knows neither he nor Sherlock will forget.

OoO

He still loves him; that is not changed. It is shaken but unbroken; the faith he has in Sherlock is so strong that he is even now still certain there was a reason, a _purpose _other than simple revenge. Sherlock never did anything without a reason for it…if John could just _find _it. But it's as empty a pursuit as tearing down that metaphorical wall built up in their heads and tangled amidst the sheets.

There is alcohol on Sherlock's breath and John can't help but feel a twinge of fear; he knows Sherlock likes a beer every now and then but this is different. He sleeps so deeply now, and there are shadows under his eyes when he gets up. What does he _do _during the day while John is away, between his shift and John's? It's been going on for at least two weeks now and he feels powerless.

But there is something he can do. He can keep Sherlock from being alone, maybe even _feeling _alone…he can give him himself. All of him. John is no saint but he figures it's about the only thing he can do at this point without going beyond his limits. Or Sherlock's. He will do anything, and he does mean anything, to stop from losing him.

"You're…quitting?" Moran looks up from the slip of paper the grim faced boy is handing him. "Don't you need the money?"

John nods. "I'll find a way. Sherlock needs me, right now, and I can help him. When he's better, I'll find work again. I have enough saved."

Moran nods with a sigh. "I wish you wouldn't do this, John. I know you love him; that's become quite apparent, but if he needs help, you shouldn't be made to suffer for it."

John's cheeks flush. "Caring for him is never something I just _suffer _through."

Moran holds up his hands. "I know, I know. But you understand what I mean? Does Sherlock have a job?"

John nods. "He works at the Yard. They pay decently, but his shifts are shorter than mine. I don't…" He bites his lip. "I don't want him to be alone."

Moran nods again, holding the paper carefully. "You're a good worker, John. I know you have plans to go university next year and you work hard with that, too. If Sherlock gets better and you still want a job, I'll keep this one open for you."

John looks up, surprised. "…You will?"

Moran smiles slightly. "Yeah. There's these kooks that go around railing against people for who they are and what they do, and to me they're queerer than you'll ever be. You work hard, and you're polite, and you have a steady job."

John flushes under the praise. "Thank you, sir."

"Just keep it in mind…if you wanted to come back," Moran concludes.

"I will. Thank you. A lot." John stammers slightly, as Moran heads back to his office.

He collects his things from under the counter and pushes the doors open for the last time as he heads into the warm air of outside.

OoO

Sherlock is still in bed when he gets home, his beautiful face drawn and looking paler than usual. He stirs and mutters in his sleep-_a nightmare, _John's brain supplies. He hurries to the bed and smoothes over Sherlock's forehead tenderly.

"Hey, Sherlock. It's okay…" He moves slowly and soothingly, not wanting to startle him.

Sherlock mumbles something, but he appears to calm slightly under John's ministrations. He turns into the tanned hand that cups his cheek, nuzzling into it.

John is holding his breath.

"John…" the boy sighs.

"Mm?" John says softly, but Sherlock goes on. He must still be sleeping.

"Sorry…hurt…please…"

"It's okay," John whispers. "It's okay."

"Please." Sherlock's tone is bordering on begging. "Don't…John…"

John is slightly confused. "Did I hurt you?"

Sherlock is reaching, clutching for something. John gives him his hand and he holds it in a death-grip. "Not John," he says, quite clearly this time.

_Not John. _

"Sherlock, nobody's hurt me," he says softly.

"Mm." Sherlock seems to be finally relaxing, and he curls into John's body as it sits beside him.

John lies down and wraps his arms around him. Sherlock nuzzles into the crook of his neck and John closes his eyes.

"It's going to be okay," he murmurs, just to reassure himself. "We're going to be okay."

OoO


	8. Chapter 8: Nobody's Home

Chapter Eight: Nobody's Home

**Answers: **

**Bulletproofsince1999: :D **

_You said you don't have to speak__;__  
I can hear you.  
I can't feel all the things you've ever felt before,  
I said it's been a long time  
Since someone looked at me that way.  
It's like you knew me,  
And all the things I couldn't say._

(Together, the XX.)

"It's okay, we're going to be okay," John had said, and Sherlock almost believes him. It's harder not to, in fact, because John so completely believes it. His eyes are alight with determination and his voice is firm. He wants to hold onto that and bury himself in it; to drown again like he had before.

But this time, the weight of his sinking is crushing.

_Why can't you see through this? _He wants to scream it sometimes. In the subtlest, quietest ways. But he can't; he's never been good at words, and even if he had been, he can't say them. And if John has to hate him, or be angry with him because of it…so be it. He has to swallow at that thought, however. John lies asleep beside him, and he still curls his body into Sherlock's, seeking that protection. Perhaps it's subconscious, but he likes to think that it's because some part of John understands. A piece of him sees through this even if his mind hasn't caught on yet.

It's one night when he comes home, the alcohol he swished his mouth with heavy on his breath, that he finds the room quiet.

"John?" He calls, making sure he slurs just slightly. "Where are you?"

There is no answer.

Panic rises in Sherlock's chest; he runs into the bedroom, pale eyes sweeping over the empty bed, the clean floor, the vacant chairs. There is no one in the kitchen, but John's things are all still here.

Then he hears it. Coming from their small bathroom upstairs where he must have missed it a minute ago in his panic. Sounds of quiet sobbing.

He runs up the stairs even more quickly than the first time, heedless of their narrow steepness. He knocks on the door gently. "John?"

John's crying reduces to quiet sniffling as he composes himself. "Go away, Sherlock. Please. Just…go away."

"What's happened? Are you hurt?" Sherlock persists, because he can't help it.

"I said _go away!_" John shouts, and this is not like him. This is so _unlike _him that Sherlock's panic is rising instead of dwindling.

"Please just tell me you're alright," he begs.

"I'm not," John's voice has a choked quality to it. "But you're not helping."

Sherlock is quiet. He takes two steps away from the door, and then sinks down on one side of it. John must be pressed against the other on the inside. Silence reigns for a few moments.

"Is it me?" Sherlock finally gets out, quietly. "Am I making you like this?"

John is silent, which Sherlock knows to be his answer.

"I'm sorry," he gets out stiffly.

Still, John makes no reply.

He sits with his back against the door for almost an hour. It's hard, and unyielding, and it feels just. It feels fair, but what good is it if John is doing the same thing, on the other side of the door. At least, he assumes that's what he's doing. He pushes down a twinge of worry at that; John is far too sensible to do a thing such as suicide, and far too sentimental to do it in _their _bathroom.

His resolve crumbles by the end of the next quarter hour. "John, please. Please say something," he begs.

There's a pause, and he realizes he's not even breathing.

"What do you want me to say?" John's quiet voice, now calm, replies.

"Tell me what's wrong," Sherlock pleads. "I know I've done something…I know I've been quite the fuckup lately, but I _want _to fix it." It's not a lie; he'll do anything to make John feel better. Even if what he's done has been for a reason, and a _good _reason at that, John can't know this. If perhaps, he was more observant, he might, but Sherlock can't find it in himself to hold it against him. If he was as emotional a John tended to be, and thought so emotionally because of it, he didn't doubt that it would be hard for him to focus his mind on other, bigger things.

But then, to John, emotions were extremely important, so that wasn't really fair.

"Sherlock, something's happened between us. I don't understand what it is, and I don't…" John is trying to steady his voice. "I don't know if it's my fault, or what you've been doing, and I _miss_ you."

"John, I'm right-"

"You know what I mean!" His voice is so frustrated. _Try to feel what he feels. _"I can't read you; you know I'm not as smart, or frigging observant. But just _once, _could you be honest with me?"

Sherlock bites his lip. "John, please open the door."

"No." There's that stubborn note in his voice that Sherlock still manages to find strangely endearing.

"Please," he repeats.

"I don't want to talk to you."

Sherlock feels the need to hit something. _Why _won't he just _cooperate? _He's trying so hard in his own way and John _isn't understanding. _

"Tell me." His voice feels detached; what is he saying?

"No."

"_Tell me!"_

"No!" John shouts so suddenly that Sherlock starts, and then the ground is coming towards his face as the door is shoved open and John leaves. He slams the door behind him and Sherlock grabs at his hand, the hem of his shirt, anything.

John turns, his expression angry. "Let me go, Sherlock. You're being a child."

"You won't talk to me," Sherlock answers defiantly, standing up.

John rolls his eyes and moves towards the stairs. But Sherlock doesn't let go.

"Sherlock, I said _Let me go,_" John's tone is bordering on threatening. "I want to go out for a bit."

"Not before telling me-tell me what's wrong!" Sherlock's voice is getting high-pitched with fear; he has no actual idea of what John wants to do and if he were to-

John tries to jerk his way out of Sherlock's grip and move to the stairs. He's about to reach the first one when Sherlock makes a vicious tug, ("John!"), and there's a ripping sound. John stumbles, tries to grab the railing, aims too far and practically hurtles down the step, slamming into the wall.

And then his John, his beautiful John, is falling.

Sherlock is already moving as he sees John fall, face towards him, down all steep, hard, sixteen steps. He has his hand on the rail and he's _moving, _he's _going, _Goddammit.

But what is Sherlock against the weightless pull of gravity?

There's a sickening _cracking! _Sound as John hits the ground, and his body jerks like a marionette's. His upper back slammed into the third step and his head against the floor; he lies sprawled out. Red blooms like a deadly flower underneath his head in a small, trickling puddle.

Sherlock is certain his expression has never been so terrified. With a hoarse cry he runs down the last few stairs and turns to inspect John's body. There's a sort of croaky, crooning sound coming from his lips and he pulls his jacket off to rest John's head on.

"John, John," he hears his voice but he can't feel his lips framing the words.

John gives a low moan of pain, and his breathing is all wrong. It sounds like he's sucking up water and then breathing it all out again, like a rusty ventilator.

"It'sokayit'sgoingtobeokayI'vegotyoupleasebeokay." Sherlock is trembling all over, and it takes him a full fifteen seconds to think of the phone.

He scrambles to the kitchen and pulls out the receiver, dialing 911. _There's been an emergency; my friend's fallen down the stairs, 221 Baker Street. _

John's eyes are all wrong, too, and Sherlock doesn't dare hold him. It's the only thing he knows how to do, though; he's lost. This wasn't supposed to happen, how is this happening, this can't be happening.

The sound of sirens is in the distance.

John lies in the white hospital bed, hooked up to at least four machines. They stapled his head already, and no one can get Sherlock to leave his side.

He's so numb by all of this, everything that's happened, he can only focus on one clear thought.

_I can't lose him, I can't lose him, I can't do it, I can't. _

For the first time in many years, he prays. _God, if there is one, if you're up there and you'd let such a thing happen to someone like him…fix it. Please, please fix it. I'm not good, I'm not going to give you any of that repentance crap. But John is different; he's good and he deserves to live. If you care, if anyone up there cares, fix him. Do something. Because I can't. _

_I can't. _


	9. Chapter 9: Wires

Chapter Nine:

Wires

oOo

Answers:

Bulletproofsince1999: There are no limits to my cruelty. :P

Mcchighlander: Well, I hope you're a whovian too, then, because you'll need both hearts for this fic. :D I'm so glad you're enjoying it!

oOo

You got wires, going in,  
You got wires, coming out of your skin.  
You got tears, making tracks,  
I got tears, that are scared of the facts.

Running, down corridors through, automatic doors;  
Got to get to you, got to see this through.  
I see hope is here, in a plastic box,  
I've seen Christmas lights, reflect in your eyes

(Wires, Athlete)

oOo

Doctor Stapleton is not known to be the kindest of people. She's been known to…experiment…with patients' responses. Nothing illegal or medically unsafe, of course, but her mother used to tell her she should have been a psychologist with the way she enjoyed playing with people's responses. She definitely didn't become that, but her almost disturbingly dedicated hobby in science was enough for her.

However, as a doctor, she's still extremely good at her job. Good enough that whatever dislike people harbor towards her is shoved away in its face. She thinks she might get a promotion next year…with the right job, the proper diagnosis.

And it seemed to be sitting in front of her.

The boy on the bed, hooked up to several machines all of which she had contributed to bringing in, is so small she thinks he is a child at first. Then she realizes he is merely curled up on the bed, and an agitated boy is sitting in a chair close by, practically vibrating with obvious fear. She guesses he has been involved in whatever has put this boy in here, and she isn't often wrong.

He looks up as she enters and closes the door, standing up.

"How is he?" He asks, smoothing his composure. The transition is almost eerie; he calms and adjusts his face, pale eyes cool as water.

Doctor Stapleton turns to look at her newest patient, reading over the clipboard in her hand. John Watson, seventeen years old, 135 lbs. 5'6. Came in last night, two broken ribs, fractured skull and suspected punctured lung. Well, more than suspected. The fluid John has been coughing up says otherwise, and the fact that there was blood this morning isn't helping.

"Doctor Stapleton?" the boy behind, the one who _isn't _lying on the bed possibly dying, asks.

"How do you know my name?" She turns to glance at him.

"Your nametag, obviously," he says with a slight eye roll. _Smartass, _her brain unhelpfully supplies, and she forces herself to remember that stress births worse things than some inherent sarcasm.

"Right. What is it?" she inquires.

"How is he?" Sherlock nods towards the sleeping boy. As if to answer his question, he's suddenly seized with a coughing fit. Sherlock hurries to his bed and helps him lean over as blood speckles the spotless white sheets.

Stapleton watches with clinical detachment.

When he finally stops and subsides, the drugs filling his system trying to keep him sleepy enough not to feel pain, he looks up dimly at the taller figure.

"Sherlock," he smiles sleepily, seeing nothing but the boy hovering over him.

"Shh…it's okay, baby, I got you," "Sherlock" smoothes over his forehead gently. "It's fine…"

"Wh't's wrong with me?" John mumbles, looking up at him. His face radiates something akin to adoration, which manages to surprise Stapleton slightly.

"Your lung is punctured, John," Stapleton decides to put in, speaking to him for the first time. "It's why you've been so heavily sedated."

"_What?" _Everything is slowing down; the increments too gradual. Sherlock stares at her.

"My lung?" John is looking at her in confusion.

"Yes. Your third right rib was broken in your fall. How did it happen?" She inquires. "The fall."

"It was my fault," Sherlock says bluntly. John is holding onto his hand. "But it was an accident, I swear."

"I don't doubt it. But nevertheless, John's in here now. And I suggest you make sure he has everything in order," she says meaningfully.

"That's it?!" Sherlock can't stand up because his hand is wrapped around John's, but she can tell he would if it wasn't.

"Yes," she replies, as if it's completely obvious.

"You're just standing there telling me he's going to die?" Sherlock's pale eyes are alight with anger.

"Would you like me to lie? I can. John will be fine; he will recover in a few days, and you can take him home and resume your happy life as his homosexual significant other." She blinks at him. "Except, of course, even you know that he won't."

She expected him to lash out in anger, (it's been known to happen before, God knows,) but he stays put. If anything, he seems to wrap himself around John, who curls against him with a sleepy murmur. It's such a ridiculously emotional response that Stapleton finds herself again somewhat surprised. These are interesting patients, indeed.

"Can you do anything?" Sherlock inquires.

"We can wait, and see if the fluid will stop. If it does, we might be able to repair the rib. But I estimate that percentage at less than eight percent."

The boy nods.

Stapleton checks her watch. The small golden hands tick towards the number 11. "I have to go. Keep him distracted, and for God's sake don't be crushed if something happens."

Sherlock's eyes follow her out of the room. He's seething. _In case something happens. _As if his most precious thing is now hanging by a thread of less than eight percent.

"Sherlock," a soft voice makes his anger drift away almost as quickly as it came.

He looks down at John, kissing his fingers. "Mm?"

"You'll be okay, right?" His voice slurs slightly, his eyes strangely unfocused. Sherlock knows it's from the drugs, but it disconcerts him.

"I'll be okay if you are," he answers, smiling.

John sighs gently. "I have a letter in my drawer. The left one? It says what I want done with my stuff."

"Alright," Sherlock whispers, watching John feebly trying to weave their fingers together.

John tries to nod, but he's seized with another coughing fit, and Sherlock has to hold him up. He's biting his lip when he sits up, wiping a few droplets of blood.

"What is it?" Sherlock asks, arms still wrapped around him as best he can through the machinery. "Does it hurt?" He knows that look. John is trying to hide the fact that he's hurting. He wishes he wouldn't.

A tear runs down the bridge of John's nose.

"No, baby, no," Sherlock squeezes his hand as he begins to cry. Small, stifled sobs that are wrung out of him. Sherlock knows it must be hurting him just to breathe. Something's sticking in that precious lung that should never have been there, and it's wrong, it's all wrong.

John leans against him, trying to stop.

"I love you, I love you," Sherlock tells him over and over. He says it so rarely; it's always "I know," or "Thank you," when John tells it to him. Why does he never say it? There's time to make up for it now.

"John, I love you. I love you so much. It's okay, it's going to be okay." He says it until John has quieted, closing his eyes.

"Sleep," Sherlock commands.

"I want to stay with you!" John pleads, but it's a losing battle. He drifts off before he can even finish his sentence, and Sherlock holds him close.

"John, I love you," he murmurs against the smaller boy's skin.

John does not answer.

oOo

"Sherlock?"

Said Sherlock lifts his head up, instantly alert from where he has been sleeping for the better part of two hours. He immediately straightens himself up, feeling crease-marks on his face. He frowns in irritation at Doctor Stapleton. "Yes?"

"I thought you might want some lunch," she explains. "And I wanted to talk to you."

Sherlock glances at John.

"Don't worry, we won't be gone long," she assures. "His IV will supply him any nourishment he needs."

He nods and gets up, careful not to disturb John's drugged rest, and examines himself in the reflective panes of glass by the window.

"You don't look any worse than eighty percent of the patients here," she rolls her eyes.

"It's not that I'm concerned about," he answers somewhat witheringly.

"Then what is?" She inquires pointedly.

"John's condition is worsening," he says simply.

"Yes, I know."

He nods, as if understanding that she knows this as well as he does, and heads towards the door and into the hall. "Where's the cafeteria?"

"I was going to take you to a place where they legitimately put effort into their food instead of their CAT scans," Stapleton replies drily.

"Mm. I don't want to leave John."

She sighs, again reminding herself that he's young, he's emotionally attached, he needs comfort. But she's never been good at that anyway.

"Fine. Follow me," she says briskly, leading him down to the elevator.

The ride down is made in general silence; neither of them are particularly talkative personalities and even if they were, both minds are equally occupied.

When they reach the bottom of the lift, Stapleton walks with calm regularity to the small room with six or seven tables, mostly empty.

"What do you want?" She inquires, gesturing to the board above the counter displaying what food they have.

He shrugs. "Two biscuits. Please," by way of afterthought.

He takes his seat at a table-the one with the worn blue paint on it as she orders. While she awaits their food, she takes a moment to examine the boy at the table. They have several similarities, she observes. Trouble with emotion, tend to be detached from their surroundings and singularly focused on a particular object or task. But, in all fairness, he has something that she has always had trouble mastering-emotional honesty. He's made no lies about being fine, but neither has he broken down into fits of weeping over the imminent loss of someone who obviously matters to him.

The weary lunch-lady finally hands her their two trays; one with two plain biscuits and the other containing her egg salad.

"Thank you," Sherlock says as she sits down across from him, sliding his tray towards him. The phrase comes almost involuntarily; like he's not used to saying it.

"He's changed you," she observes, unwrapping her fork.

He tears off a piece of the biscuit and lifts it to his lips. "What makes you say that?"

"The way you say Please and Thank-you," she explains. "They haven't always come so…easily, have they?"

He nods. "My parents are well-to-do people. They and the people they hired taught me all those things, of course. But I left them."

"Your parents or the courtesies?" She asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Both, I suppose. I had no one to obey, to show…respect, for. I guess you could say I was something of a brat," he admits. "John seemed to see through that. He was someone I didn't mind being polite, or respectful towards."

"He treated you with respect," she guesses.

"Yes."

There is silence for a few moments as both parties eat. The next one to speak is Stapleton.

"You and I are similar in several ways, I believe."

"I would agree," Sherlock answers, wiping his mouth.

"Then I think it will be appropriate to talk to you in my own way of speaking."

"Which is to say, clinically detached. You are about to give me facts, not comfort. You're a doctor and a scientist, I'd wager. Such things hold no value to you except when examining things like mood and changeability."

"You're good." She smiles slightly. "Although science is more of a pretty hobby that I have. Being a doctor is time-consuming, as you know. And I have a daughter."

Sherlock shrugs. "So, what is this revelation you're about to warn me of?"

"Not a revelation. I'm telling you what to expect. John is very likely going to die, Sherlock."

The clench in his jaw at that is not lost on her.

"And I'm sure that thought has come across your mind several times. If that does happen, you will probably be expected to make a statement to several parties on the nature and scenario of his death. Telling me, "It was an accident, my fault," is fine. You're not required to tell me anything. But John has family; an employer, I'm sure."

Sherlock swallows the last bite of his first biscuit before answering. "They won't get it. John wouldn't get it."

"Why not?"

He takes a breath. "I suppose that in this case, there would be no harm in explaining to you and no need for secrecy. You are, as his doctor, honor bound to keep his privacy."

She nods.

"I'm not without…enemies," his forehead creases. "The fact that I tend to be aggressive as well as something of a putdown when I choose has garnered me a few acquaintances I'd rather not have. I had hoped that John would be safe from this, but it would seem not."

"Someone threatened you," Stapleton deduces.

"Yes. About John. There are several people who would really not mind me being hurt or worse, but the one who made the threat probably isn't even entirely sane."

"Who is it?"

"His name is James, though he goes by Jim. Jim Moriarty. He's always hated me; I think he sees us as rivals not only on the track but also the intellectual field. Awhile back there was a wreck; it looked like an accident but I was able to prove that Moriarty had set it up to incapacitate his opposing racer. It put him in prison for six months and he had to pay a large fine. Funds that he didn't have. He told me in no uncertain terms that he was going to get revenge, and I was wary of him. But he left to get the money he needed about a year ago, and I wasn't expecting him to show up again for a while. But he did. He took one look at John when we came to the field, but he made sure that John didn't know he was there."

"What did he threaten?" Stapleton wonders.

"He had made…friends…in his absence. He gave them the money for apartments scattered around John and I's and told them to watch him. Then he cornered me one night and told me that if I didn't make John leave me, John would leave me in…another condition." He runs a hand through his messy curls. "And he had to _want _to leave me. He had to hate me. I thought about trying to tell him, get him to leave, but there were too many spies. And too little time. Nights in which John thought I had gone out to drink or drag were in fact spent going around, trying to get help. I sent a letter to my older brother, Mycroft. He occupies a strong position in public service and could possibly have gotten John to safety while I took care of Moriarty. But he never wrote back."

"Do you have an idea as to why?"

"We haven't spoken in years. I was honestly not expecting him to reply anyway, but I had hoped he would do something. I've never asked for anything," he explains. "And I could be of service to him."

"I'm sorry." Stapleton's tone is more subdued. "I know that the accident basically makes all that moot, but I am sorry. You worked…very hard…for something you obviously didn't want."

He shakes his head. "John refused to leave me. He's so stubborn…I appreciated it more than he will ever know, but it irritated me at the same time." He smiles a little. "You could say that my work of becoming despicable to him wasn't paying off. I was disappointed."

"If, in the almost impossible likelihood, that John were to recover, would you explain this to him?"

"Yes, definitely," Sherlock nods. "There would really be no point in secrecy." By now he had finished his biscuit, and he smushed a crumb under his index finger. "Looking like a kook is better than looking like a liar."

Stapleton smiles, stacking their trays. "I hope he wakes up so you can tell him."

Sherlock's face becomes drawn; the weariness settling over it again. "I don't know what I'm going to do," he mutters. "There's never been anyone like him."

"I know," she replies as they head back towards the elevator. "I really do hope he recovers, Sherlock."

He nods, watching the lights flicker on the signals for each floor they pass. He squares his shoulders as he steps off the elevator. "Me too."

They part at the hallway; Stapleton has other patients to care for. Sherlock hurries to John's room, slipping inside.

John is awake, just barely, and he smiles softly at the taller boy as he pulls up his chair beside him. "Sherlock…"

"Hey, baby." He smiles at him gently, brushing the soft blonde hair above John's forehead.

He leans into the touch. "Where were you?"

"I was talking with the doctor," he answers softly. "We were talking about you."

"Will I be okay?" John inquires, closing his eyes.

Sherlock takes a moment to answer. When he does, he uses John's words.

"It's okay. We're going to be okay."

John falls asleep under his watchful gaze.

oOo


	10. Chapter 10: A Symphonie Pathetique

Chapter Ten:

A Symphonie Pathetique

oOo

Answers: (Lots of them today. :P)

Guest #1: Well, I hope you can keep ahold of the body liquid of madness you have, because the downpour isn't stopping. :P

Guest #2: Thank you so much! I'm so glad you like it!

Guest #3: Oh my gosh, that is just the best thing ever. Hearing from you guys that this is something new or different is so encouraging. :D

Bulletproofsince1999: Ah, my faithful story follower. :P Ah, my sweet summer child.

Guest #4: Why bother? XD

YourWally: Thank you so much for sticking through this fic with me. It's unorthodox by our standards, but I have truly loved writing it so much. :)

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_"__We. We together_.

_One being. Flow together like water._

_Till I can't tell you from me_.

_I drink you_._ Now_, _now." _

- The Thin Red Line.

oOo

The day drags by. Sherlock spends it staying close to John, holding him, talking to him. Every so often there's a pause, and a silent question.

_How long?_

By evening, John is having trouble breathing. It comes in harsh, guttural heaves of air, like he's trying too hard to suck in the precious oxygen he needs. But there's never enough of it, and Sherlock feels guilty, so gut-wrenchingly guilty, for being able to pull it in so easily. He shouldn't be able to-he should be struggling; gasping, dying. But it isn't him.

"It's getting worse," Stapleton tells him quietly. "He'll be gone by tomorrow, I think."

Sherlock would tell her no, that can't happen, it can't _be _happening. But he is silent.

Because it can. And it is.

He could sense the change in John; with every hour that passed his consciousness faded a little. His eyes grew duller, the light that glowed in his deep blue eyes gone. Hope drained away like water from a dried-up spring, the last thing to go. The monitor seemed almost hesitant.

Sherlock wants to tell him; God knows, he tries so many times. But John can never stay awake long enough, and his face has grown so tired and peaceful that he almost can't bear to. He feels too much; everything is too sharp, too acute. Sherlock feels it and wants to crumple like a tin can. But, of course, he can't. And in the back of his mind is the reminder that now, more than ever, he wouldn't leave John for anything.

It's not really medically sound, but John is so tired and agitated at points that Stapleton allows him to sleep, resting on Sherlock's flat chest. His breathing is finicky and raspy, and as soon as she leaves, Sherlock's resolve crumbles.

He has never cried so much.

He feels like a girl, but he's too far gone to care. He cries for how tired he is, he cries for what he's done to John, he cries for the fact that he knows something's going to happen to him for this.

He cries because it should be him.

oOo

He knows it's coming around four A.M. He's drifted in and out of sleep but John hasn't been fully conscious all day.

Until now.

Sherlock watches John blink awake, dark blue eyes cognoscente and his monitor has picked up.

"Sherlock," he murmurs, only able to let his eyes rove hungrily over the older boy's face.

"John," Sherlock whispers, stroking one cheek with the tips of his fingers.

"Don't get mad," John begs in a thin voice. "Please."

Sherlock's forehead creases with his distress. "I'm not mad. How could I be mad?"

"Please," John whispers. His eyes are closing but only to stop the tears brimming there.

Sherlock is completely confused. "I won't. I promise. I could never get mad at you."

"B-but you already have."

Sherlock's heart crumples like a smashed tin can. "John, it was all a lie. I was never mad at you. I-I had to…I never wanted you to be hurt; I never wanted this to happen."

John does not respond.

Sherlock turns slowly to where tears are leaking from John's closed eyes. His little hand isn't holding onto Sherlock's anymore. Where is that stupid whine coming from?

"John," he whispers, hands shaking as he cups John's small face.

Oh. So that's where.

Stapleton is already hurrying into the room; Sherlock guesses she has been outside the door for quite some time.

He doesn't care, though; the only thing that matters right now is what's cradled in his arms.

_John. My John. _

He can't say anything. He opens his mouth and dry air comes out. He can't even respond when Stapleton tells him, almost gently, "Sherlock, we have to take him out. There's patients waiting who need this bed too."

He shakes his head. John is better. John deserves a warm bed, and love, and hell; he deserves to wake up.

But Sherlock knows he won't.

His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, his eyes are so dry they're burning. _Please, I love him, _he wants to beg, but he can't do it. Of all the times when human emotions fail him, it is now.

Stapleton seems grateful for this; as Sherlock is gently pried away from him and a crisp white sheet covers John over like he's something shameful. It makes him sick.

"You need to call John's parents. Tell them," Stapleton urges. Sherlock shakes his head. How is he supposed to _call _someone when he can't even tell her No?

So he watches them take John away, and then he follows.

oOo

He knows he looks like a coward when it is Harry that calls John's parents and tells them. He knows it is no less than he deserves that John's father spends five minutes shouting out the sentence that he may absolutely _not _go to John's funeral. He picked out John's one suit and made sure he was dressed in it, and that's all.

He is numb.

He sleeps alone for the first time in months. The bed feels empty without John in it, the apartment feels cold and silent.

Desolate.

He's been told that it's expected that a call to court will happen in a few days, but nothing's for certain. So he dresses, and eats, and sleeps because it's what John would have wanted. But it hurts, it hurts so badly. John should _be _here to tell him to do these things; even though he is fully capable of doing it himself. He doesn't feel capable, he doesn't feel like this was worth it.

He waits.

It's the day after the funeral that it comes. The rapid knock on his door, the notice he is handed. The officer's eyes are grim. Sherlock wants to know who will testify against him.

He's not surprised at his answer.

He gets out his suit, the deep blue one with the matching tie, and makes sure it is free of wrinkles. He is, by all accounts, a man. He must look the part of one.

He eats, because of course, John would have wanted him to. John would be giving him iced tea and probably biscuits with at least half a dozen jams. (John did so love jam. Sherlock still can't take them out of the refrigerator.) He eats in silence, but his mind is so loud. He's never been one to believe in hauntings, or visitations of ghosts, ect. But he almost wishes he did. What he would not give to have John here with him right now is so mind-blowingly useless that he wishes he could stop thinking altogether. It hurts his head.

That night, his dreams are vivid. They usually are, but this time it's different. The colors are sharper, more real. The sounds are of perfect, realistic quality.

John is serving him dinner, perfectly baked biscuits with his three favourite jams, and honey. He sets down a tall glass of iced tea, water running down the sides in its form of condensation.

Sherlock looks up to thank him, and then starts backwards. John is smiling at him sweetly, so happily…but there's blood running down his cheek from a cut on his head. A rib is sticking out of his side, his clothing is torn and drenched with blood. When John opens his mouth to speak, blood dribbles out the corner.

"John." Sherlock's tone is constricted. He scrambles backwards.

John's smile fades; he looks confused. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"You," He whispers.

John goes very still. And then he shivers. Tears of blood leak from his bright blue eyes, his fingers begin to drip steadily.

"No, John, stop!" Sherlock begs. "You have to stop bleeding!"

He shakes his head. "I can't. You have to stop it."

"I _can't, _you're _dead._" Sherlock keeps scrambling away and John keeps coming closer.

"Why are you leaving me?" John inquires, his tone plaintive. "What have I ever done?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "It's me. I did this."

John stretches out bloody fingers to him. "Fix me," he begs.

"I can't."

John looks at him sadly for one more moment. And then it's as if his body has crumpled in on itself; he sinks into a heap of blood and bones on the floor.

Sherlock crawls to him, shaking. He touches the pile and his hand comes away _warm _and _wet _with John's life force.

"No, no, no," he repeats mindlessly, staring stupidly at the red stain. It won't come off-he rubs it on everywhere. His pants, the floor, the couch cushions.

John's blood will not come off his hands.

Sherlock awakes covered in sweat instead of blood, and he's crying so hard he doesn't even notice.

oOo

The judge calls the court to order. All rise and the witness takes their oath.

Sherlock watches Moriarty's face as he repeats every line, _to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. _

It might hold more water if he believed that books hold power.

Sherlock pleads guilty to everything they accuse him of; really, it's an astonishingly short court session.

_He's always been unstable, he'd taken to drinking, it was strange John hadn't seen through it before, _Moriarty relates.

The judge nods and the jury converse amongst themselves. _Have they reached their decision? _The judge inquires. They have.

Sherlock Holmes is convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to a mental institute for three years. He is to leave the next day as soon as the calls are put through. Moriarty already has one to recommend.

The Reichenbach Mental Institution.

It feels poetic.

oOo

**Notes: Things I never thought I'd be doing for a fic-researching the average sentence and witness count for manslaughter.**

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	11. Epilogue: the Lonely People

Epilogue:

The Lonely People (Are Getting Lonelier)

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**Notes: Well, my faithful readers, this segment has indeed drawn to a close. But don't worry-I told you not to trust anything and I really was being trustworthy on that. So please don't give up on me yet-I promise everything will be explained. :P**

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Answers:

YourWally: Please. :P As if I'd expect such a stonehearted speedster to cry over my epithets.

Bulletproofsince1999: Of _course _it's not the end. :P "The game is never over, John."

iColor With Crayons: I'm so glad you liked it! Don't give up on me yet. ;)

Guest: Feelsy, feelsy.

Jujulib63: I know how you feel. I call John "My baby" on an unhealthy basis. :P

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He asks for one thing before he goes-he wants to see John's grave. They give him dubious consent with the compromise of having a policeman with him, (probably Moriarty's suggestion.)

It's clean grey stone, a few bunches of flowers laid around it. He sees Mrs. Hudson's daylilies, and some of Mrs. Turner's nasturtiums. Right in front of the actual grave itself is one white rose, and Sherlock guesses that was from Harry.

In hindsight, he realizes he probably should have brought something. But he has no idea what flower John would have wanted, if any, from him, so it's really a moot point. But it doesn't feel right to just leave as if he had never been; no one will remember he's been here.

So he pulls one of his gloves off, the one on his left hand, and carefully sets it down beside the one rose. Black against white.

It feels poetic.

oOo

An addiction is consuming. It takes away sanity, normalcy, thought. But it also _gives _things; peace, and an absence of thought, and something to want.

Sherlock's addiction has been broken.

It's not like he wanted it so. If he had had his way, John would always be there to give him more. John was like that, he muses as the car pulls into a gravel driveway. There's a fence around, and the building looks too stark, as if someone whitewashed it too hard. Sherlock takes all this in as he is led inside.

They cut his hair. A barber hastily snips and clips his curls until they're close-cropped; unable to hide anything even if he had wanted to. He's given new clothes, white and clean, just like the outside walls. The fabric is cotton; cold and practical.

His room seems to have had some effort put into it, at least. It's not stark white; the walls are a soft blue shade no doubt intended to have a calming effect. There's a bed with clean white sheets and a thin comforter to match the walls. His pillow isn't hard or soft. It just is.

Sherlock knows the people outside pity him. He hates it. He doesn't deserve or want their pity-it's worse than their scorn. Moriarty's hand or no, he deserves to be in here.

He sits down on the bed, and notices his neck and head feel cooler and lighter without the curls. He still misses them. John loved his curls. He smoothes his hand over the sheets, and they feel the same as his clothes.

Sherlock spends his first day there completely lost in thought.

oOo

Around eleven the next day, Sherlock gets his first visitor. Late twenties, a clean-cut brown suit and appraising blue eyes. Sherlock is allowed into the eating area to see him.

"Why?" Is his first word.

"Why what?" The man inquires.

Sherlock glances up. "You know _exactly _what, Mycroft! Why bother coming now? Why are you even lowering yourself enough to come here in the depths of my despair?"

"I weep for your position," his older brother responds, rolling his eyes. "Father didn't want me to intervene."

"So you actually listened to him for once?" Sherlock inquires acidly.

"Apparently, since you made such a clear stand on your independence, father thought it might be best if you handled you own messes," Mycroft responds, eyebrow raised.

"What about John?" Silver-cerulean eyes bore into dark blue. "Why couldn't you have helped him?"

"How could I have helped him?" Mycroft shrugs.

Sherlock's cheeks flush and his fist tightens. "He had nothing to do with any of it."

"Sherlock, you seem to continually forget that I'm twenty-six years old. I'm neither all-powerful nor do I have an army of trained governmental officials to come to your aid when you find yourself in deep water."

"But you got my letter!" Sherlock's voice is raised and several other patients turn to look at him.

"Yes, I did. Be grateful I did what I did," Mycroft answers imperiously,

"You always were an insufferable idiot," Sherlock mutters.

"Sticks and stones, little brother."

"You still haven't answered my question," Sherlock points out.

"Why did I bother to come at all? Well, I didn't think it entirely beneath me to pay a visit to my dramatic younger sibling," Mycroft says with the slightest of smirks. "And I wanted to give you something."

"Are we doing gift exchanges now? What is this-a charity luncheon?" Sherlock's tones are withering.

Mycroft reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small black notebook and a silver pen. "Father wants you to have this. Apparently, subjugation should not be accompanied by complete boredom, at least."

Sherlock's fingers wrap around the cool leather. The silvery pen glints slightly in the white lights.

"Keep track of things in it. Write documents, deductions; letters, even," Mycroft shrugs, standing up.

Sherlock doesn't get up, but he looks at Mycroft. "Leaving?"

"Fortunately; I have a lunch meeting in an hour and I can't be late," the older brother responds, checking his watch.

"You could just show up at the very end and eat the dessert, since that's obviously the only thing you're interested in," Sherlock smirks.

Mycroft flushes slightly; sore spot hit. "A thank-you wouldn't go amiss, you know."

"I know. But I'm afraid the only thanks I would be offering would be to our father," Sherlock responds coldly. "John is dead, and your "regret" about it doesn't fix anything."

Mycroft blinks once, and then turns on his heel and begins to walk out. "Goodbye, little brother."

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

oOo

Sherlock goes back to his room on his own, holding the gifts carefully. No one says anything to him about it, so he guesses Mycroft must have negotiated something to let him have it. Not that he cares.

When the door has shut behind him and he sits on his bed, he opens up the small book and looks through the creamy pages. Nothing inspires him.

He reads for the rest of the day.

That night, he has his first nice dream in months. John is wrapped in his arms and Sherlock is kissing his fingers.

"I love you," John says.

"You shouldn't," Sherlock murmurs, caressing his hands.

John smiles at him sweetly. "It's okay now. You won't lose me."

When Sherlock wakes up, he can almost feel John's lips on his own. He pulls in a breath and turns on the light, sitting up.

_You won't lose me. _

He suddenly knows what he's going to write. He gets out his notebook and uncaps the pen, and scribbles two words on the top of the second page.

_Dear John._

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	12. Not a Chapter Update

Hey, guys, just a quick reminder that the second part to Addicted to You is here: /s/10519688/1/ This is the url of the work; beforehand you just need to enter the fanfiction website name as it won't let me insert the whole link. I hope it works! Thanks so much, and happy reading!


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